


To The Fallen

by dilemmaed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Angst, Canon Divergence - Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Character Death, Comfort/Angst, Dark, Drama, Drinking, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Heavy Angst, Hogwarts, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Slow Burn, The Golden Trio Era (Harry Potter), Trauma, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-08-07 02:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 126,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16399958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilemmaed/pseuds/dilemmaed
Summary: One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.





	1. Penelope

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> So, this is my first Dramione fic and it was originally supposed to be a one shot but I got extremely carried away. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think about it; I've been sitting on this first piece for a little while now as I was nervous to post it.
> 
> This will be a rather dark war era fic from Draco's POV
> 
> Big thanks to my awesome beta closer-to-monkey:)
> 
> -Em:)

He sighed deeply as he lifted the glass of amber liquid to his lips, taking it in one large gulp. As it travelled down his throat, it burned; it was never a feeling that he really got used to. Draco didn’t mind it though, because it only lasted a few seconds in comparison to the time he spent numb to his pain due to its effects. It was a small price to pay to forget, or not care, even for a few hours.

He wiped the stream of alcohol that was dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand before running it through his untamed blond hair. He smacked his lips together, making sure not to waste another drop. His right hand, which was gripping the now-empty glass, slammed down onto the table in front of him, making a small clatter. He released his firm grip on the glass and moved his shaking hand to clutch at the half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey. He sloppily refilled his glass almost to the brim, before starting the process all over again, hoping that this time it might help him. It seemed to work less and less each time, not quite giving him the effect he craved any longer.

He stared lazily in front of him at nothing in particular, biting down hard on his bottom lip. He ached to forget it all; the war, the darkness, the pain, everything. The war has been going on now for one-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days and it didn’t look like it was going to stop anytime soon; it raged on, destroying everything and everyone in its path, with Voldemort at its head. He was winning, despite exhaustive forces rebelling against him. He had taken most of England and Scotland now, ravaging the majority of the cities beyond repair and murdering millions in the process.

The world was just as entrenched in it as it was when he defected all those years ago at the Battle of Hogwarts. At the time, it took all the courage he had to leave the Death Eaters, leave his parents, by extent the Malfoy name, and join the Order; the courage of a scared seventeen year old boy who’d seen more horrible things than most people did in a full lifetime. They’d lost that battle along with hundreds of irreplaceable lives, most of them innocent children. He’d been with them ever since, fighting alongside the people who he’d once thought of as the enemy, fighting with all he possibly could so that one day, the world would be safe again.

Upon joining the Order, he was treated with hostility and definitely wasn’t welcomed with open arms. Draco couldn’t blame them for not trusting him, not believing him, especially after spending almost a year plotting the demise of Albus Dumbledore, the founder of the Order of the Phoenix, not to mention the Mark that plagued his skin, the very thing that made bile rise in his throat every time he looked at it. He’d done horrible things in the past and they were often spat back in his face when he’d first changed sides. He tried not to care, tried not to interact with people if he didn’t have to. It didn’t matter what they thought of him; it’s not like they were friends. This was a place where you couldn’t afford to have friends, a place where it wasn't worth the attachment. Once you left the wards, there was no telling who would walk back through the front door and who wouldn’t. People came and went rather quickly in this world. So, he did what he was told, fighting in many battles over the past four and a half years, one-hundred and fifty-seven to be exact, surviving and defending when necessary, but never getting attached. After the first few battles, people began to trust him, realizing that he was there just as they were; to put an end to the war; to win it.

When he’d first joined, he’d allowed some of the higher up members, including Potter (reluctantly) to use legilimency on his mind and prove that he had no mal intentions. He was scared, terrified actually, of what they’d think when they saw the things that he’d done, that he’d let happen. Draco knew that they couldn’t possibly think less of him than he did himself, but it still terrified him to the core. Those select few people who had seen inside of his head, to his surprise, respected him and he couldn’t quite understand why. He was a coward; he stood by as innocent people were murdered, tortured in his own home. He couldn’t understand how they’d forgiven him, as he didn’t do anything to deserve their forgiveness. He was still trying to figure out how to forgive himself, but he doubted that he ever would.

That brought him here, to kitchen table of an Order safehouse in the middle of nowhere, Scotland, alongside a few others that were being put up there as well. He’d been living there for quite a while, a few years at least, but many of the faces that resided have come and gone. The commander of the house, for a long while now, was Aberforth Dumbledore, the younger brother of the man that Draco was ordered to kill all that time ago in his sixth year at Hogwarts. He was tense around him when he’d first met him, almost mistaking him for the ghost of Albus quite a few times, as they resembled each other greatly. After Aberforth moved in, the night on the Astronomy Tower became the subject of many of his sweat-soaking, tear-jerking nightmares for some months and he was reminded of it every time he looked into the old man’s solemn eyes. He meant well and never treated Draco with anything less than respect, knowing that he was able warrior, but it was still difficult at times to look at him.

Besides Draco and Aberforth, the only other long term resident of the safehouse was Hermione Granger, the same Hermione Granger who he’d spent years tormenting. The same girl who he’d watched writhe in pain on his drawing room floor as Bellatrix Lestrange tortured her, carving into her skin with a cursed dagger almost six years ago. The memory made him shudder as he threw back another sip of Firewhiskey. She was the only person who has been there longer than he, although he wasn’t sure how much longer.

When he’d first arrived at the safehouse, Granger was extremely careful around him, her brown eyes watching his every move, as if he were going to do something horrible if she looked away. She hadn’t wanted to let go of the image of who he once was: a schoolyard bully who hated her because of who she was born to. She’d eased up after a few months of light stalking, glares and the occasional argument, leaving him be most of the time, which he was quite content about; Draco did like his privacy. But in the times that she did still bother him, she generally irritated him with her presence and prying questions, making his teeth grind together. He didn’t hate her any longer, although he wasn’t sure that he ever hated her to begin with, but he carried a dislike for the way she carried herself. She simply bothered him, there was no other way to put it. He still teased her every once in a while when he felt up to it, but never tormented her as he used to, never calling her a mudblood, only bothering her enough to see her get flustered. Her presence, however, was still slightly uncomfortable, trudging up many of the things he was trying to forget, but then again, everything did. That was why he was drinking.

Besides the three of them, the other residents of the house at the current second were Dean Thomas, Hannah Abbott, Luna Lovegood, Oliver Wood and Padma Patil. Tonight, they’d lost a resident for the first time in three months. She hadn’t even been here that long, maybe eight months. Penelope Clearwater had died only hours ago, her lingering presence still in the air throughout the house, her dirty mug still in the sink, her book still on the coffee table, unfinished. He could feel the loss as he walked through the halls, haunting him. She was murdered by Alecto Carrow mercilessly after she put up a strong fight; he had seen it happen, but was locked too far into a duel with Antonin Dolohov to do anything to stop it or help her.

He generally didn’t see much of the others, as he stayed in his room other than mealtime and training, but it still hit hard when one of them was lost. He didn’t know Penelope particularly well or cared much about her at all, but she was still present in his life, another someone he saw on a day to day basis who would no longer be there. He never got used to the heavy feeling that weighed on his chest that came along with death. It lingered for days, putting him in a constant haze, keeping him up at night, not that he got all that much sleep to begin with.

He couldn’t take any more loss. If he got close, he wouldn’t be able to handle it, so he kept everyone at an arm’s length. He’d already made that mistake three years ago by befriending Theo Nott, another defected Death Eater and Slytherin who was sent to the safehouse years ago. Draco became close with Theo, finding that he understood some of the things that he’d gone through. He was one of the few people that he could stomach a conversation with, maybe even share a laugh. Theo had a sick sense of humor and often used it as a coping mechanism, to help to take away some of the pain he was feeling. Draco found comfort in him, familiarity, which was something that was hard to come by these days.

On November the Seventeenth, 2000, Theo died trying to save him in battle, jumping in front of a killing curse that had been meant for Draco himself. It was his own uncle, Rodolphus Lestrange who’d cast it. It was Draco’s own fault, or so he believed. He felt he was too careless, that if he’d been paying more careful attention to his surroundings, then Theo would still be alive. He’d chased after his uncle, firing every curse imaginable at his uncle until he lie lifeless on the ground a few feet away. He didn’t even care that he’d just lost his temper, or even that he’d committed murder for one of the first times. Seeing Theo’s eyes grow empty had made him lose his mind, made him lose control. He had died for Draco, sacrificed himself so that he could go on. The war took the one damned person he cared about and destroyed him along with everything else. From that moment on, he swore never to let another penetrate his walls, worm their way into his life.

He shut his eyes tightly at the thought, pushing the heels of his hands into them, releasing a groan. Now, when he drank, the first glass was always for Theo, a cheers to him. The Firewhiskey wasn’t helping anymore though, he felt the same as he did earlier, just slightly warmer. He heard the door creak open behind him and he turned slowly, but his head still spun, an obvious effect to the amount of alcohol he’d consumed in the short amount of time he’d been there. It was three o’clock in the morning and he thought everyone had gone to bed by now, but of course, no one was sleeping, not tonight, but he still didn’t expect to be bothered as he never had been in the past.

When the dizziness faded he came to see the figure of Granger standing in the doorway, looking frazzled, her eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, her pale cheeks blotchy. “Oh,” She said, her tone lacking the effort of sounding surprised, even though she clearly was. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.” She said, blinking a few times before taking a confused step forward into the kitchen. She was wearing a simple white singlet and flannel pyjama pants, her slim midriff exposed in the gap between them. Prior to living at the safehouse, he had no idea how attractive her body was, though he would deny it if he were ever asked. When they were back at school, her robes were so baggy on her that she looked shapeless, not that he was even looking, but the outfit she was in now left little to the imagination. He was almost taken aback by her lack of bra. Her bushy hair in disarray, as if she’d been tossing and turning for hours now. Her eyes shifted from Draco to the bottle and then back to him. “S’okay.” He slurred, returning to the bottle to pour himself yet another glass.

She was frozen in place for a second before moving towards the counter, where she pulled out a pot out of the cabinet above, making a loud ruckus by knocking things over. Draco flinched, not expecting the disturbance. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the noise to a minimum. You’re going to give me a headache.” He said rudely as he pressed the rim of the glass against his lips once more, taking a sip of the burning liquid. “ _That_ is going to give you a headache.” She said pointedly, her eyebrows raised as she gestured towards the bottle of Firewhiskey that was almost empty now. He rolled his eyes at her, clenching his jaw to keep from grinding his teeth. “ _That_ is none of your business.” He sneered back at her. She didn’t reply, but she continued to make clatter, lighting the stove and taking out various items. “What on earth could you possibly be cooking so loudly at three in the morning?” He questioned, although he wasn’t sure he actually cared; he just wanted it to stop and her to go away. She sighed and without looking at him, replied, “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to make warm sugar milk; my mum used to make it for me when–” He cut her off, making hand gestures. “All right, too much information, Granger. It was just a simple question.” He was being crass, but he didn’t really care; she’d interrupted his quiet night. “You don’t have to be so crude about it.” She said, stirring the milk in the pot with a spoon. He almost asked why she was making it the muggle way when he remembered that he’d probably cut her off from telling that story and that he didn’t actually care to hear it.

Dishes clattered in the sink as she worked her way through the kitchen, doing some sort of cleaning up, although it sounded more like she was breaking dishes. “Merlin, Granger. Must you make so much noise?” He grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut. She was quiet for a second before responding. “Yes, I must. Once again, I’m sorry I seemed to have interrupted your very busy night of drinking yourself to death.” She said nonchalantly as she slid into the chair opposite him, mug in hand. Well, there goes any thought that he’d be able to finish his drink in solitude and silence. He looked up from the table to see her, noting that her cheeks were flushed a light pink. She gnawed on her bottom lip so furiously that when she released it, there was in indent in it. She lifted the mug to her mouth, drinking the milk with a slurp that echoed in the deserted room. “Merlin, you even drink loudly.” He breathed out. Although he was speaking low, she seemed to have caught what he said and gave him a hard glare. “Why are you so angry at me, Malfoy? I haven’t done anything to provoke you. I simply can’t sleep, so I’m here. I’m sorry I interrupted your self-pity party; I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.” She said, her eyes flickering with ire. He could feel himself getting angrier, but he didn’t feel the need to have a full-blown fight tonight for absolutely no good reason, so he took a deep breath, forcing himself to count to ten before responding.

“I’m not angry. I’m just not in the mood tonight, Granger. Let’s just drop it.” He said with a sigh, taking another sip of Firewhiskey. She raised her eyebrows at him, her brown eyes wide. She looked as if she were going to say something more, but settled on a simple, “Fine.” She returned her eyes to her mug, looking deeply at what was inside. The scent of her drink filled his nostrils, an almost sickeningly sweet concoction that made his nose crinkle. Draco tried to ignore her presence, emptying the contents of his glass down his throat. She was silent for a few minutes, keeping to herself, which he wasn’t going to complain about. There was a sadness in her eyes; he assumed that it had to do with losing Penelope tonight, but it looked deeper than that.

She’d changed over the past year, her demeanor was less optimistic, less… Granger. It wasn’t saying much, he guessed, everyone’s changed, circumstance made it so; him of all people knew that. But she kept to herself more often than she once had, locking herself away in the library for hours, sometimes days at a time. Well, he guessed that did still sound a bit like Granger. After all, she always _was_ an incessant know-it-all. That didn’t seem to change the fact that she seemed off lately. It wasn’t anything too big that it stood out to everyone, but he noticed. It wasn’t too hard to see if someone were to really look. Whenever she entered a room, it altered itself around her, the air morphing, becoming more... melancholy, but who was he to talk, he was sulking around most of the time as well. He wasn’t sure if she was sulking so much as losing hope or grieving, but came off a lot like it was.

“Why are you drinking, Malfoy?” She asked, still looking down, making sure not to make eye contact with him. She seemed almost scared to ask, but did anyway. He supposed it was her annoyingly persistent Gryffindor attitude peeking out once more. Her question took him by surprise and he’d frozen in place when the words left her lips. He looked up at her, supposing that he could lie and say he’d just fancied a drink tonight, but he doubted that she’d believe it, especially considering what had happened earlier and the fact that he’s nearly drank the entire bottle. He decided to tell her the truth, thinking that it might get her to go away and leave him alone to finish his drink in peace.

He simply shrugged, placing the glass he’d just drained back down onto the table. “To numb the pain; to feel _something_ other than constant agony. I don’t want to feel it anymore; I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime or two even. I’m _so_ sick of it all. l need to feel something, anything, before I explode. This place, this war, it’s killing me; it’s killing all of us. Sometimes, I just need to forget it all, clear my mind of all of those things, just for a few minutes, a few hours. It helps to take the pressure off.” He whispered seriously, stopping himself from telling her more. The alcohol had loosened his lips quite a bit, revealing things to her that he otherwise wouldn’t have told her. He’d almost hoped to scare her a bit, making her uncomfortable enough that she’d leave, but she didn’t budge. Draco’s storm grey eyes didn’t blink as he spoke and carried a desperate undertone within them, making them glow silver.

She tried hard not to look taken aback by his honest response and did a pretty good job of not looking shaken. He was sure that she expected him to lie or dismiss the question as a whole without actually responding. She took a moment to collect her thoughts, seemingly thinking of something rational to say. She nodded, taking a sip from the steaming mug of sweet milk before placing it back down on the table. “I guess we all have to cope somehow. We all just do it in different ways.” She said simply with a shrug, as if it weren’t a fucked up topic of conversation. He gave her a hard look, studying her red-rimmed eyes, which had the appearance of someone who’d spent hours crying into their pillow. “How do _you_ cope, Granger?” He asked, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. He suppressed a smirk, but he didn’t do a very good job of it, as he could feel the corner of his mouth turn up.

At first, he’d thought she didn’t hear him, as she didn’t even look up, but then she licked her lips and prepared to speak. “I try to keep myself busy, try to distract myself from everything that’s going on. My books, my planning, it all just sort of keeps me busy, keeps my mind off things, I guess. It stops me from thinking about it; when I’m locked away in the library, I can sit there for hours or days and just pretend that everything outside is alright, that we aren’t in hiding, that there isn’t a war going on, killing everything and everyone I know without hesitation.” She said, her face turning a shade of red with embarrassment, as if she just realized who she was talking to. He didn’t reply, not to be rude, but because there was nothing else to say. He did nod though, silently empathizing with her statement, although he’d never outright admit it. He would give anything and everything to forget about it all. He wasn’t sure why she was actually telling him this, maybe it was a gesture of honesty since he’d been with her, but his honesty was most definitely due to the alcohol content in his body at the moment.

“Does it work?” She paused, gesturing towards the bottle, frowning. “The alcohol?” She finished, her eyebrows furrowed together. He licked his lips, lifting his silver eyes up to meet her chocolate orbs, which were peering curiously at him. He shrugged, his gaze shifting towards deadpanned, not really knowing why he was telling _her_ this. “Not anymore.” He ran his fingers through his hair and then rolled his neck until it cracked. He groaned as the muscles released the tension in it momentarily. Draco straightened his expression to look at her; her hands were shaking a bit as they cupped her mug for warmth.

He pursed his lips and took this moment as an opportunity to ask something, even if he didn’t particularly care for her. He was just curious and after all, _she’d_ asked _him_ a personal question first. She was back to chewing on her bottom lip, which was already chewed raw. Draco crossed his arms over his chest, observing her. “Why is it that you’re here?” He asks, narrowing his eyes. It wasn’t a pressing question, he could have asked the one question that’s been bugging him since he arrived, but he thought better of it, knowing it would probably cause an argument. “I already told you, I couldn’t sleep and—” He cut her off mid-sentence, shaking his head furiously, a smirk playing at his lips. “But why couldn’t you sleep? What haunts your dreams, Granger, keeps you up at night? What is it that you, the Brightest Witch of Our Age, fears above all else?” He couldn’t help himself from asking, his eyebrows raised, hoping to get some sort of a rise out of her. He had felt the urge to know something, to talk to someone. Being shut up in his own head clearly wasn’t working, so maybe if he spent some time in someone else’s, his own wouldn’t seem so horrible.

She looks astonished that he would even ask her such a question, but suppressed any expression by drawing her mouth into a thin line and relaxing her brow bone. She was silent, releasing a sigh after about two minutes, lifting her chin up to look at him. Granger’s brown eyes had gained a glassy quality about them, his pathetic image reflecting in them as if they were mirrors. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear nervously, but it just tumbled back out, caressing her cheek lightly. He almost liked that he’d silenced her, but at the same time, he had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, although it could just be the Firewhiskey catching up with him. She finally mustered some words to say, stumbling on them as she spoke, “I… Well, I, um, couldn’t sleep after what happened with Penelope. It just felt… impossible… wrong almost. It always does. She is–was,” She corrected, flinching at her words, “The eighteenth resident of this place to die since I’ve arrived here. There’s not one person who’s been here as long as I have and it makes me sick, Malfoy; it really does.” She pauses, clenching her eyes shut tightly for a second before reopening them to look at him intently.

Draco poured more Firewhiskey into his glass, taking another sip, feeling it burn his throat as she hesitated on her next words. “You wanted to know what haunts my dreams, keeps me awake, causes me to never want to shut my eyes again? Well, it’s their faces; each and every one of them. Innocent lives, most of them under the age of twenty-five, robbed of their futures because of all of this. And somehow, I’m still here, forced to deal with the aftermath.” She shakes her head, sinking it into her chest so that she’s looking down into her mug. She lets out a breath, His expression softened more than he’d care to admit as he swallowed hard, keeping his lips pressed into a thin line. He understood; he truly did, but it’s not like he could tell her that, so he sat quietly, staring into his empty glass at the refraction within it.

“Why are we still here, Malfoy? What did we do to deserve to still live? What didn’t they do?” She says, shaking her head, her eyes looking down at her fingers, avoiding eye contact with Draco. He released a breath, taking a sip of Firewhiskey, trying to get the sour taste in his mouth. “It’s not about deserve.” He spat. “If it was, I would have been gone years ago; I certainly don’t deserve to live more than anyone else. I wish I knew why I, why we are still here. To me, it just seems like dumb luck. We’re survivors, that’s all Granger, nothing more, nothing less. We just adapt better than everyone else. I wish I knew why, but that’s why we’re still alive.” She seemed to accept this answer, but didn’t reply, just giving him a solemn nod of recognition. The glint of tears in her eyes, however, was unmistakable. He almost rolled his eyes at it; bloody Gryffindors were always so damn emotional.

After a moment or two of complete silence other than Granger’s incessant slurping, she pushed out her chair and stood up, her singlet coming up a bit for a second so that he could see more of the creamy skin underneath. She pulled it down without hesitating as she saw Draco’s eyes wander to the exposed flesh. “I’m going to bed now.” She stated as if he cared, looking bewildered in her expression, groggy maybe. She put her mug in the sink with a crash and approached the doorway rather quickly, stopping there, her hands on either side of the frame. She spun around to face the blond, who was pouring the last of the Firewhiskey into his glass. “This goes nowhere, Malfoy.” She said, her orbs filled with an almost businesslike seriousness. He nodded, but it seemed unnecessary that she would have to say that. “Who would I even tell? It’s not exactly like I have any friends.” He said, rolling his eyes at her and waving her off. “Goodnight Granger. Sleep tight.” He said dismissively. “Well, in that case, enjoy your impending hangover.” She replied wittily and in a flash, she was gone, leaving him in the kitchen alone to finish his last drink.

Draco stared into the amber liquid and hesitated for a moment before drinking. He sighed, preparing himself to do as he does every time they lost someone. After Theo, it’d become habit for him, becoming a part of his routine for those nights when the house was just a little bit quieter. He lifted the glass up in the air carefully, holding it out as if he were toasting it, whispering as quietly as he could, “Penelope Clearwater; may she find the peace we’re all seeking.” He then brought the glass to his lips slowly, taking the last of the alcohol down in one breath. He buried his head in his hands and sat there for a long while, alone, feeling the tingling sensation on his lips and the pounding in his head that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tried.


	2. Oliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> So I was so overwhelmed and stunned by all the responses for the first chapter so I decided to post this one a bit early as I managed to get all my tweaking done today. Thank you all so much for your kind words about this fic so far I hope you enjoy it:)
> 
> Another huge thanks to my beta closer-to-monkey!!!
> 
> -Em:)

One-hundred and twelve days later, Draco found himself in the same position. He sat in the same chair, at the same table, in the same kitchen, in the same house gripping the same glass with force. He felt worse than he did all those days ago, aching in agony, holding back groans every time he shifted in his seat or did something as simple as moving his arm. He was supposed to be on bed rest, but he had to do this, needed to do it. It’d taken him almost twenty minutes to get from his bed to down the hall into the kitchen, where he resided now, having fallen twice on the way there, cursing silently to keep from waking the other residents. Now that he was here, he felt unable to move from the spot, as if someone had put a sticking charm on the chair. He was stuck there, at least, until he finished. 

He looked out the window on the wall opposite where he sat, seeing his reflection in it. He looked horrid, absolutely horrid. He hadn’t looked this battered in a long time. His platinum blond hair was disheveled, as he hadn’t brushed it after he’d washed off the dirt and blood that was caked in it earlier. He has a split lip that he’s yet to heal, which burns every time he takes a sip of the substance in front of him, but he doesn’t care, he has to keep going. He also had the remnants of a slice in his eyebrow, that hurt every time he tried to move it. His eyes had heavy bags etched into his porcelain skin, bringing forth the flecks of silver in his eyes, which were bloodshot from squeezing them shut harder than he ever had. He was sitting shirtless, his abdomen wrapped in tightly wound bandages to cover the horror scene underneath. The entirety of it was covered in an explosion of black and blue with tinges of yellow. The colorful display was garnished with gashes that had been healed only slightly by dittany. They were once again at a shortage for medical supplies, as if it were any sort of surprise by now. There was also an itch coming from underneath that he couldn’t seem to satisfy, making him all the more irritable. Even where the bandages weren’t, he was still covered in bruises, littering his usually immaculate pale skin in various discoloured shades. His face even had a scratch or two on it. He would most definitely have scars, not that it mattered anymore; he had more scars than he could count.

Tonight, he’d been too slow, a victim of the cruciatus curse by the hand of Thorfinn Rowle. He’d been one second too late to fire a curse at him, resulting in torture that lasted for what felt like hours, but in reality was probably about fifteen minutes. It was Aberforth who’d finally saved him, stunning Rowle from behind and pressing Draco’s emergency portkey to his chest before anyone else could get to him in his weakened state, sending him back to the safehouse. He hadn’t been hit with that curse specifically, since before he’d defected. It was a regular occurrence when he’d been living at the Manor, as he often fell short of what Voldemort expected of him. It brought back memories he had long since suppressed. Memories of the worst time, the last time.

He could still feel the metallic taste on his tongue as he coughed up blood onto the bright marble floor, his stomach contracting with each heave. He remembered feeling as if he couldn’t move, as if his muscles had turned to liquid, leaving him laying on the floor for hours, sprawled out like a rag doll. It took him hours to muster enough energy to lift his head, and by that point, he’d been so dizzy from blood loss that he’d fallen back down, rendering him unconscious with a smack to the marble. Voldemort had used a new variation of the cruciatus curse along with the good-old fashioned original. It was meant to have the effect of boiling water running through your veins, scorching your insides until all you could smell was your burnt flesh. If Snape hadn’t been there to heal him, he was sure he would have been dead. That was for not identifying Potter, Weasley and Granger when they were brought to the Manor and for letting them escape, his wand in tow. That was the worst he’d ever been injured, unable to move, to speak, after screaming himself hoarse, for over a week. He was in a potion-induced coma for the first three days. Compared to that, this was just child’s play. 

He swallowed hard, blinking a few times as he willed himself to look away from his reflection, knowing that it won’t do him any good to look at how destroyed he was. He took down a large swallow of the drink, closing his eyes as it burned him. He bit his bottom lip, letting out a groan as the top one seethed. He put the glass down in front of him, placing his elbows firmly on the table. His head fell into his hands, rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes before moving his fingers to his hair. He yanked on it, wanting more than anything to scream out in pain, in agony. Each breath brought a new pang of ache, forcing his bruised insides to move in and out as he needed air. It was all so overwhelming. It was difficult enough to deal with the physical pain and the memories, but what had happened after he’d been sent back made his head throb so intensely, he wanted to vomit. 

They’d lost another, for the first time since Penelope, bringing the toll of the house up to nineteen. Oliver Wood bled out from a sectumsempra curse fired at him. No one knew who’d cast it, not many people knew that spell, but it didn’t matter; Oliver was dead and someone had killed him. Apparently, Granger and Lovegood tried their hardest to get the bleeding to stop, but it wouldn’t. It kept flowing out of him in pools of crimson until it didn’t. He couldn’t help but feel that if he’d been there, he might have been able to do something to stop it. Had Draco had been there, he might have been able to recall the counter-curse that Snape had performed on him so many years ago in the bathroom, but he was too incapacitated to have even known what was going on. He felt guilty, responsible in a way. He didn’t even know until Marcus Belby had told him whilst Aberforth was tending to his wounds. If he wasn’t so engrossed in healing then he probably would have hexed him for even mentioning it. Belby was Penelope’s ‘replacement’, filling the physical hole left by her absence, not quite perfectly, as no one was every replaced fully, always leaving a gap, an empty hole that got bigger and bigger with each death. He had rushed into the drawing room, where Aberforth was healing Draco, covered in blood. He had carried Oliver’s body back to the house, where Dean Thomas had laid him to rest in the gardens alongside the others who had bodies to be buried.

Now, he sat again at the kitchen table, a bottle of Firewhiskey in front of him waiting patiently to be drained of its contents. No matter how shitty he felt, he had to do this; he had to drink tonight, for Theo, for Oliver. They deserved it, they deserved to be remembered, all of them. He felt responsible for Oliver as he had for what happened to Theo. This was ritual for him at this point, even if it didn’t help, didn’t work anymore, it was something he had to do. It certainly wasn’t making the physical pain go away, let alone the mental, emotional strife he was in constantly. 

Not all that much had changed since Penelope died; the war still raged on with the Order on the losing side of it. They were winning the battles, but losing the war. Voldemort was too powerful, too strong to be stopped. Whatever Potter was supposedly doing, he needed to get on with it before everyone ends up dead. They were fighting with all that they could, pushing on so that one day they wouldn’t have to fight any longer, but people were still dying left and right. They’d lost Oliver tonight and they’d no doubt lose more in the time still to come. He couldn’t stand the thought; it put a sour taste in his mouth, causing him to throw back another gulp of whiskey. 

He heard light footfall in the hallway and turned with great difficulty to see who was still awake. Just as the night Penelope died, Granger stood in the doorway of the kitchen, only this time, she was wearing a charcoal jumper that was two sizes too big for her and a pair of shorts that barely shown due to the length of her top. Her mousy hair framed her face, its curls still damp from her shower earlier that night. She’d needed one horribly after being soaked in all that blood. She seemed shaken, her eyes filled with lost hours spent trying to fall asleep. He raised his eyebrows at her, but the pain from the gash there caused him to flinch. He just couldn’t seem to get a moment to himself; she was once again interrupting his night, his ritual. He’d just barely been able to shake off Dean, who was sent by Aberforth to watch him in case he’d decided to do anything rash. He suppressed his anger, knowing he didn’t have the energy for an outburst tonight. 

Her face filled with color as she saw him sitting there, wearing nothing but boxer briefs. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” She asked, biting down on her bottom lip as she struggled to keep eye contact. It seemed to be a habit of hers; he’d noticed in the months following the night where they’d talked in this very spot, that she’d constantly be biting at it whenever she was uncomfortable or nervous. Her eyes kept trailing downwards, but they flickering up to meet his eyes, looking quickly away in a pattern. He shrugged, but it ached to do so; he suppressed any form of a groan from coming out of his lips. “Probably. What’s it to you?” He narrowed his eyes, his gaze meeting hers. “It isn’t.” She stated simply, but didn’t move from her spot in the doorway. 

Her espresso colored opals drifted down from his slate ones, roaming his body nervously, still chewing at her lip. “Take a picture, Granger. It’ll last longer.” He said, a smirk taking up residency on his face. Her eyes looked back up to meet his and she flushed a darker shade, giving him a guilty look. “Oh, I…” She drifted off and he took this as an opportunity to speak. “Nice to know that I still have that sort of effect on women, although I thought you’d be too prude to look at me like that.” He mused, letting out a painful chuckle that turned into a grunt. She folded her arms over her chest defensively, continuing to gnaw at her lip. “I’m not a prude, but if you  _ must _ know; I was looking at the bruising. You took a hard hit tonight, Malfoy.” She said in a tone reminiscent of their interactions in childhood, moving towards the cabinet to pull out the pot she’d used the last time, the clatter she was making louder than her voice. Draco cringed as the pot hit the burner with a crash. If she kept this up, she’d awaken the whole house.

“You say that like you care.” He said, into the glass before taking a gracious swig. “I don’t. You should probably be in bed though.” She said, not looking at him as she spoke. She slid the pot with a metallic scratching noise so that it was perfectly centered and lit it, taking out the milk and sugar. He thought about teasing her for making noise again, but thought better of it. “What are you, my  _ mother _ ?” He said, the words meaning to sting. He was in a bad enough mood as it is; he didn’t need her trying to parent him. “No, but Aberforth will be angry if he finds out you’re not resting. Plus, we can’t risk losing anyone else.” She came back quickly, her eyes wide as she turned to face him, her back now against the countertop. Her petite frame looked shapeless in her jumper, but still somehow suited her. The ambrosia-like smell of the sugar milk filled the room, spreading around in a sickening fog. “Well, we just won’t tell him then.” Draco gave Granger an amused smile, which faded quickly as he dove back into his glass.

Granger filled her mug with the white liquid before sliding into the chair opposite Draco, the same one she’d sat in the last time. She took a small sip of her drink, blowing on it so that the steam rose in elegant swirls. He shifts in his chair and releases a groan while a pained expression spreads across his face. Granger’s expression morphed to one of concern and it took him aback for a moment. “Are you alright? I mean, does it hurt badly?” She asked, shaking her head at the stupidity of her question. He raised his eyebrows at her, forcing a trademark smile. “Actually Granger, it feels bloody terrific, like I can go do a waltz with the bloody Dark Lord.” He stated, a sarcastic twinge in his voice. She rolled her eyes, shooting him a glare. “I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Malfoy. I was just being compassionate. You should try it sometime.” She said into her mug, taking another sip of her drink. “Alright, fine. It hurts so bad I can barely move. Oh, Granger help me!” He mocked, rolling his eyes. She just looked at him with disdain laced in her eyes. “Yes, of course it hurts badly. I’ve been worse, though. I’m not one of your charity cases. Is that what you wanted to hear?” He asked rhetorically, his eyes wide and his lips pulled into a thin line. She shook her head, releasing a sigh. “You’re impossible.” He flashed her a cocky smile that she pretended she didn’t see. “I believe you mean witty and undeniably attractive.” She let out a snort into her mug, using her hand to stifle her smile.

When she composed herself, she eyed the bottle in front of him and furrowed her brows into a line. He could see the cogs working in her ever-analyzing brain. “How did you even get this stuff? Alcohol’s been on short supply for months. Only the higher ups get it and even then, it’s rare.” He just let out an arrogant snort even though it ached him to do so. “I have my ways.” He said, lingering on the syllable before continuing, “ I thought you were supposed to be smart, Granger.” Draco took a pause and another burning sip of the liquid in question, making sure to smack his lips together, regardless of how much it hurt. She narrowed her eyes at him and he rolled his eyes but continued his explanation. “You see, there’s this wonderful place called The Black Market, surely you’ve heard of it–.” She cut him off immediately, her face reddening in exasperation as she spoke, “That’s illegal, Malfoy! You could be reported for that!” Draco let out a huff of annoyance and willed himself not to roll his eyes again. 

“How very Gryffindor of you to be worried about me getting in trouble over illegal alcohol. People are being murdered left and right and  _ that’s _ what you’re worried about? You need to sort out your priorities.” He shook his head and gave a half-mocking chuckle. “Besides, Granger, what are they even going to do to me if they find out? It’s not like they could bench me for the rest of the bloody war; they need me. They can’t afford to lose another fighter.” He sipped his drink, flourishing it in the air in a lazy gesture of explanation. He could see that she was trying to come up with a way to clap back at him, but came up with nothing. She returned to chewing on her bottom lip, an irritated expression growing on her face, one that came with knowing that he was right. He was one of their best duellers, he often came up with foolproof battle plans and he knew more about the Death Eaters than most, having lived them for over a year. Even if they did find out that he’d been smuggling in illegal Firewhiskey, they wouldn’t do anything, except possibly confiscate it, but even then, he’d just buy more, so it would be a moot point. It was his one reprieve from this place and no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t take that away from him.

He slammed back another burning glass of Firewhiskey shamelessly, pouring himself more. As he placed the bottle back onto the table, he noticed Granger’s eyes were gaping at something. She looked stunned at what she saw, but not quite. He followed the path of her eyes and it led him to the stain, the blemish on his left forearm. It burned greatly, as it always does, but he’d gotten used to it after all these years. He came to ignore it, but never being able to forget it was there. He felt nauseous as he looked at it and turned his wrist over so that she could no longer ogle at it. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that staring is rude, Granger?” He grumbled into his glass. Self-conscious would be an understatement when speaking about his Mark; he was ashamed, disgusted by it. It’d been years since it had been branded on into him and he still hid it behind long-sleeves when he could and the occasional glamour charm when he couldn’t. He rarely let anyone see it. It was his biggest regret, his most absolute mistake. It was the thing he hated most about himself. That was what ruined him, what destroyed him. 

The only person who he’d let see it was Theo, his best and only friend and now he was gone. It was one of the things they had in common, their marks. A horrible commonality, but one that brought them together. He missed Theo, he missed everything about him, especially on nights like these. He missed his crass humor, the annoying way he would hug Draco just to make him uncomfortable, his stupid fucking lopsided smile, his womanizing ways that would make the wall they shared shake, the way they could sit in a comfortable silence, one not all too common in the middle of a war, down to the fact that he’d been a damned good friend and Draco didn’t deserve him. He’d been his brother, the one who’s seen him broken down in a way that no one but his mother had, prior to defecting. It was that Mark that brought them together, but also the thing on the skin of the very person who murdered him. 

Now, Granger saw it and would judge him for it, just like everyone else. She was knocked out of her trance as he moved his arm, her eyes looking back up to meet his. She gave him an odd sort of look, her eyebrows furrowed and her eyes wide. He was confused, she didn’t look scared, she didn’t look repulsed by him. Instead, she put her hand out, grabbing his wrist firmly and turning it over so that she could study the wretched scar before he could do anything. Her small fingers wrapped around his wrist, warm from the mug she’d been holding moments before. He tried to pull back from her, but her grip was too tight, her nails digging in. “Did you not get a good enough look at it before?” He grumbled, feeling his face get hot, his emotions falling into a place halfway between anger and embarrassment. She shook her head, her eyes trailing down towards it. “Calm down, Malfoy. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just looking at it.” She whispered, rolling her eyes. He huffed, a look of disdain coming across his lips, but he didn’t try to pull away, even though he probably should have. He tried to release tension, to relax, but he couldn’t feeling so uncomfortable under her warm touch.

Her fingers gently traced the snake’s path, causing him to shudder under her touch, but not completely pull away. “You know, when I first heard that you defected, I didn’t believe it.” She paused, pressing her finger into the snake’s head. “Yeah, well no one really did. I don’t take it personal.” He deadpanned. He looked down at her, at the way her curls fell perfectly in front of her face as she looked at the darkest part of him, save his mind. He set his jaw, releasing a slow, somewhat shaky breath. “Even when you came here, to the house, I couldn’t believe that you had actually changed, that you were here to help us. For once, I couldn’t wrap my brain around the idea of it. But you have changed, greatly, in fact. I mean, you’re still a prick, but you’ve mellowed; you’re manageable.” She took another pause, her gaze trailing up to meet his. His eyebrows were furrowed, confused at why she was telling him this, confused at the dizzy feeling he was starting to gain. “I’m really humbled by your kind words Granger.” He said, rolling his eyes for effect. She shot him a glare, but kept talking nonetheless, ignoring him.

“You’ve really changed. You haven’t called me a mudblood in years,” He flinched at the word involuntarily, causing her eyes to flick up at him. “See, that’s what I mean, Malfoy. You would call me that word every day, without hesitation, and now you can’t stand to even  _ hear _ it. Just the fact that you’re sitting here with me, that you’re letting me touch this, tells me that, tells me that I was wrong not to trust you in those first few months. I guess you’ll have to excuse that though; I had my reasons; we all did. You were cruel to me in the past, how could I have not been suspicious? But I was wrong and I know that now.” She offered him a half-smile, as if she’d said something that could have been considered amusing. “I think I really knew when I really saw you on the field, fighting. The passion that you dueled with, the… determination in your eyes. I could see it, that we were fighting for the same reason. You hated the Death Eaters as much as I did, maybe even more. But I think what really convinced me was Harry. He told me what he saw in your memories, about what had happened to you sixth year and onward. Not everything of course, but some. The torture you’d gone through just to stay alive, to keep your mother alive and some of what you’d been forced to do.” 

Of course Potter told her, he wasn’t even surprised. He was more surprised that that they didn’t have a laugh over it, talking about what a coward he was, or had been disgusted by him, by the things he’d been forced to do, the people he’d been forced to torture. He wanted to be angry, to yell at her for bringing up such a sensitive subject to him. He never spoke about his mother, not to anyone. He was almost positive that she’d been killed after the Battle of Hogwarts, when she’d lied to the Dark Lord about the death of Potter. He brushed the thought out of his mind, swallowing it down with some more Firewhiskey. 

He didn’t really know what to say, what to do, so he just looked at her, really looked at her. She was closer to him than she’d been in years, maybe ever. So close that he could see the amber and golden flecks within her deep brown eyes. She was so close that their noses were almost touching, a mere few inches away from each other. He could almost feel her breath on his skin. He could smell her shampoo, sweet, like strawberries and vanilla, as it invaded his nostrils. He wasn’t surprised; it was undoubtedly Granger to smell such a way. 

She broke the long eye contact with him, looking back down at his forearm, which she was still holding in place. He took his right hand off of his glass and moved it to grab her arm, pulling it next to where she held his in place. He wasn’t really sure what he was thinking by doing it, maybe an eye for an eye, or maybe it was just the alcohol talking once again. He was probably crossing a line, but in the moment he didn’t care; she’d already crossed one. No one had touched his mark (with the exception of Theo), not even when he shagged girls. It scared them and he didn’t blame them; of course Hermione sodding Granger wasn’t afraid of anything. Bloody Gryffindor. He looked down her forearm, studying the marking there. The scar was prominent; it was the first time he’d seen it up close since it happened. The skin was puffed up, the skin a shade lighter than the rest of her. The word made him sick, ‘mudblood’. It’d been years since he’d thought of uttering it, meanwhile, for years he’d let it flow out of his mouth without a second thought. 

He swallowed hard, biting his lip hard as he remembered the day that she got it. He could never forget it. Standing by on that day was another one of his biggest regrets that he was still trying to atone for, though he knew that he never truly could. He knew that it was his fault that she had that. He ran his finger over the letters, feeling her pull away from him slightly, but he tightened his grip, not enough to cause discomfort, but enough to get the point across. She stopped, letting out a sigh of resignation. It was only fair, she had felt his. “I’m sorry.” He said, not really knowing if his apology was directed toward the specific moment the scar was left on her body or for years of unjustified torture and hatred. She just shrugged, staying silent for a moment. “You know, I don’t blame you. For that.” She said, gesturing down at her scar, which he was looking at so carefully, as if he thought his stare would hurt her. “You should. I did nothing to help you.” He said under his breath, almost regretting speaking. This was towards the top of the list of things that he would never forgive himself for. He couldn’t fathom how she could possibly forgive him for doing something so horrible. Sometimes, doing nothing is the worst thing to do.

“It’s not like you had a choice in the matter. You would have died if you tried to stop it.” She said, shaking her head. “Before you defected, before I really thought about it; I was mad, upset, but I’ve come to realize now how scared you actually were. You were just a boy, a child. You were raised into that, forced into it.” No matter what she said, there was nothing she could tell him that would convince him that there wasn’t more he could have done, that he could have been better, done better. “When you had the opportunity, you made your choice; you left them and came here. You gave up everything, including your family, to fight for what’s right. You left everything that was comfortable, everything you knew, and came to a place where no one trusted you, no one understood why you were there, but you stayed anyway, fighting on, pushing on, not caring what anyone else thought about you because you had your own reasons for being here, just like I have mine. I think that’s brave, honorable even.” She breathed out, her hot breath on his arm. His expression softened as he looked at her look at the Mark. He’d never seen anyone look at a mark like that before. She seemed indifferent towards it, yet fascinated. He’d never heard himself mentioned in the same sentence as the word brave. He’d thought of himself as a sniveling coward, someone who didn’t deserve her forgiveness, or anyone’s for that matter. He certainly wasn’t brave. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Malfoy. You’re not evil.” She said softly, her raising her eyes to look kindly into his. He felt frozen there, not knowing how, or even if he should reply to her. 

She released her grip on his arm and he pulled it back towards himself, finding it within him to let go of her with his other hand. Her cheeks were colored a light pink as she leant back in her chair, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. Draco leant back as well, but with difficulty, groaning quietly in the process. He picked up his glass drained the Firewhiskey from it, without hesitation. She pushed her chair out, giving him a amiable smile as she stood up. She’d never smiled like that towards him before; it was kind, gentle, friendly. “You think you can get back to bed by yourself, or do you need help?” She said, pulling her jumper down, then crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ll be alright. If I need help, I’m sure you’ll hear me cursing.” He said, pouring the last of the Firewhiskey into his glass. There was no way he was going to accept help from anyone, let alone Granger. She nodded, pressing her lips into a thin smile as she exited. “Goodnight then, Malfoy.” She said. “Goodnight Granger.” He whispered, looking towards the empty doorway at where Hermione once stood.

He almost felt disappointed as she left, almost. He was confused, but right now that didn’t matter; he was in too much pain to think about it. He sighed as he looked at her mug, which still sat on the table. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, swallowing hard as he released a groan of exhaustion. He picked up the full glass and held it into the air, as if he were making a toast and whispered into the vacant room to no one but himself, “Oliver Wood; may he find the peace we’re all seeking.” He downed it quickly, wiping the droplet that was slipping down his chin with the back of his hand. He took a breath and braced himself for the immense pain that was to come. He forced himself to stand on his shaky legs, preparing his sore muscles to walk to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter won't be out as quickly, but will hopefully be out soon!
> 
> Feel free to hit me up on tumblr at dilemma-ed (followbacks on dil-emma-ed) for updates about this story and my other WIP Broken as well as previews, fic recs and posts about HP in general!!
> 
> Don't hesitate to let me know what you think: comment and leave kudos; I love hearing from my readers:)
> 
> -Em


	3. Hannah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'm back with another chapter; sorry this one took so long, as I've been focused on getting my applications for college (university) in.
> 
> Giant thanks to my amazing beta, closer-to-monkey for editing this chapter!!
> 
> -Em:)

It had been months since they’d lost another, since Draco last had to complete his sick ritual. Two-hundred and forty-seven days from the one that Oliver Wood had died, from the day that Hermione Granger had forgiven him, Draco once again found himself sitting at that same kitchen table, in the same chair. He was planning on drinking himself until he could no longer feel the throbbing in his fingertips, in his skull. He could feel it in his eyeballs, pushing hard on the sockets with each tremor. This time, however, he was scarcely injured, only a scratch or two here and there and one of his hands, the one not currently clasped around his glass, was covered in bandages after being burnt by a rogue curse that was hurdled towards him somewhere in the midst of the battle. Thankfully, it wasn’t his wand arm and it wasn’t an injury serious enough to leave a scar.

Some days more than others, he hated his scars, every single mark that littered his once blemishless skin. Every mark reminded him of the war, as if he could forget. It was like he could never escape, the reminders of it all imbedded permanently into his skin. It was a part of him now, a part of them all. Every time he went to take a shower, he could feel each and every one of them, taking away the clean and satisfied feeling that a hot shower used to give him. Now, it left him feeling dirty, as if he could never wash off the remnants of this horrid war, this horrid place, this horrid, empty existence.

He felt as if every day, or at least every battle, he came back to the house with a new scar, as if the world was keeping a tally of how many he’d fought. It made him sick somedays, made him drink until he could no longer tell the difference between his smooth and his scarred skin. It just reminded him of what he’d done, of what the war, the world, forced him to become. Despite what many here thought, Draco didn’t enjoy killing. Even if it was Death Eaters and not innocents; it was taking life all the same. He hated it, but he did what he had to do to survive, to defend, to protect. 

He’d killed three people tonight in battle. Not that they didn’t deserve it, or probably much worse than the quick death he’d given them. Every time he killed, he felt as if normalcy, or any form of a whole life, slipped further and further away. How could he ever fall in love, have a family, after what he’d done. How could anyone ever love him after knowing how many people he’d killed, how red his hands were with the blood of others. It doesn’t matter if most of those people had hands more blood-soaked than his own. What made their killing worse than his? It was killing all the same. He slammed back another burning sip of the amber liquid in his tumbler. He relished in the feeling, letting it pump into his veins, warming him from the inside out.

He could feel himself slipping away from his humanity, his morals, falling further into the dark void of the war they were so entrenched in. He wanted to cling on so badly, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could. He’d killed forty-seven people, death eaters,  _ monsters _ . Most weren’t much older than he, recruits who blindly followed orders. He was glad most of them wore masks; he wasn’t sure he could handle seeing how young some of them truly were. Some as young as he was when he’d taken the Mark. It made the bile rise in his throat when he stepped over their bodies, innocence still in their blank eyes as they lied there in the mud. He pitied them, saw himself in them as much as he tried not to. He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. 

Tonight, he’d killed two higher ups: Walden Macnair and of course, as if he would forget, Theodore Nott Sr.. That one, however, he’d never feel bad about. He disgusted him more than almost any other Death Eater after Theo had told him about the things he’d done to him and others. He always talked about one day being able to do it himself, to finally rid himself of the weight holding him back. He’d died before he’d got the chance. That irked Draco more than anything. He felt as if he’d finally done some good in this world by finishing what his best friend started.

_ “One of these days soon,” Theo whispered, his eyes burning with hatred as he glared at the wall in front of him, “I’m going to destroy him for everything he’s done.” He threw back the full glass of firewhiskey, slamming the glass on the table. “The bastard deserved to pay for what he did to me, to what he did to my mother. I want him to rot in hell. I want him to look me in the eyes when I watch the life leave them.” He scowled, glancing over at his friend in the chair next to him, a chair that he would become very familiar with in the future. Draco only hummed in agreement, sipping lightly on the drink in his hand as he gazed out the window into the nothingness outside.  _

_ He’d heard this speech before; it wasn’t the first time that Theo pledged to murder the man who’d given him life. Who was Draco to judge? He wanted to do the very same thing to his father. He wanted to be the very last thing that his father saw before he died. To know that his disappointment of a son, the one that he’d disowned years before, had been the one to bring about his demise. It was his fault, after all, that his family was so entrenched in this mess. It was his fault, that there was a mark on his arm that plagued him. It was his fault that his mother was dead, murdered. He hated him with every fibre of his being, but it was rare that his father lowered himself enough to show in battle. He was hiding out, probably in the Manor if it wasn’t yet destroyed, like the coward he was.  _

_ “I’m serious, Draco. I won’t let him get away with what he did to my mum. He should have been rotting in Azkaban a sodding decade ago. No, he should have been rotting in Azkaban before I was even born, before he laid a grimy finger on my mother.” Theo stated, his voice even. He was only ever this serious, this angry, when he spoke of his father. Otherwise, Theo was always one to crack a smile, to make an inappropriate joke. He missed that from these conversations, but he knew full well that there was no lightening the mood when speaking of this topic. “I know you are and I don’t blame you. The arsehole deserves it after what he’s done.” He replied. It was only nights like this, when they were drinking themselves senseless, that he ever talked about his father in anything more than a crude remark. It was difficult for him, he knew.  _

_ Theo’s father was a monster, possibly more so than Draco’s. It began with Theo’s mother, who’d been a young girl, the same age as they were now, when she’d been betrothed to his father, a man in his late-fifties. She’d not wanted anything to do with him, but she was bound to him by magical contact, she was legally obligated to marry him, obey him and give him an heir. The latter she’d done, although Theo wasn’t sure, well he believed, that he wasn’t conceived consensually. His father was a very violent man and tended to beat his mother into submission when she didn’t obey like the good pureblood wife she was supposed to be. Memories of such were among Theo’s first memories. He’d told Draco that after his mother, who loved him dearly and coddled him, tucked him into bed, he would sometimes hear them rowing, or more accurately, hear his father’s domineering voice and his mother’s pleas, her cries. He told him that they still haunted his nightmares, even a decade after her death. He loved her more than anything and his father took that away from him. He missed her, the one person other than Draco who ever gave a shit about him.  _

_ Theo was told that his mother succumbed to some alleged deadly illness, but even as a twelve year old, he was smart enough to know that his father had finally gone and done it. He’d killed her. He knew it, though it was never stated out loud by anyone, not even his father. The funeral had been closed casket and Theo never got to say goodbye. He never got to see her warm smile again, hear her soft laughter when he’d told her something silly. After his mother’s death, he became a prime target for his father’s pent up frustration, not that he wasn’t a target before. Only now, he was the only target and his father just seemed to get angrier by the day. He was glad to be away at school. It was his escape; it was why he buried himself in his studies, mostly kept to himself. He was more shattered on the inside than most knew. _

_ “I fucking hate him, Draco. He ruined me, just like he killed her. He took my mother away from me.” His voice broke as he forced some more alcohol down his throat. Draco shook his head, turning to look at his friend. His eyes were glassy, tears forming as he absently traced the rim of the glass with his index finger. “He didn’t ruin you, Theo. I can promise you that he didn’t break you. You’re stronger than he is. You chose the right side; you turned away from him. You’ll get your chance; I promise you, one day, you will finally give him what he deserves.” He assured him, clapping him lightly on the back. “I fucking hope so, but if I don’t, if I die,” Theo said, giving up on the glass and instead drinking straight from the bottle that formerly sat on the table between them. Draco looked up immediately, his eyes wide with the prospect. “I need you to do something for me.” Draco nodded immediately, his eyes furrowing at what he was implying. “Anything, mate.” He said without a thought.  _

_ Theo let out a loud breath. “I need you to do it. I need you to kill him for me. That fucker can’t make it out of here alive. He just  _ can’t _.” His eyes met Theo’s green ones, emerald pools laced with desperation. There was something about that look that scared him, but he wasn’t quite sure why. “I promise.” Draco stated clearly, nodding to assure that Theo understood that he would honor his word if need be, although he hoped and prayed to Salazar that he’d never need to fulfill it. _

Little did Draco know, that Theo would die without that chance only a little over six months later, leaving him with a promise he had to keep, he  _ had  _ to. Nott Sr. was there that night, the night Theo was murdered, the night he’d jumping in front of the curse. After Draco had killed Rodolphus, he’d turned on his heel to return to Theo’s body; he couldn’t leave him there. When he did, his eyes locked with someone across the battlefield. Nott’s eyes were cold and emotionless as they focused in on his son’s lifeless form, lying there in the dirt. He looked as if he was unfazed, if anything, the expression in his eyes reflected disdain and disappointment. It was all Draco could do not to kill him right there. He took a deep breath and kneeled next to Theo, his skin still slightly warm as he clutched him close, shutting his eyes tight as he apparated him back to the house. He couldn’t complete his promise that night, he needed to get Theo out of that disgusting place.

Along with those two, he’d killed one nameless face tonight, one he didn’t recognize. He wouldn’t have even seen his face if his mask hadn’t fallen off as his lifeless body hit the hard ground. His face had remarkably reminded him of Theo; of course it did, everything did. His eyes were that same shade of green that his had been. It was an earthy color, too vibrant to be a Slytherin green, falling somewhere just short of emerald. His eyes had scared him. He thought, only for a short moment, that he had killed his best friend all over again. He was horrified by what he’d done, his mouth gaping in disbelief. Yes, Draco had killed Theo. It was his fault, he knew it was. He came to his senses less than a second later when Granger had yelled his name, calling to him, urging him to leave. She gave him a strange expression, glancing back and forth between Draco and the body lying on the ground in front of him. Aberforth had called for them to retreat, but apparently he’d been too focused on the body to hear him. It was then that he realized that the boy he’d killed had blond hair and a skin tone too light to be Theo. He sucked in a breath and and apparated away after taking one last look.

It was that boy’s face that was still etched in his mind when he saw Dean Thomas carrying a small rumpled form, one that looked familiar, but too pale. It’d taken him a moment before his eyes focused in on the tears rolling down the wizard’s face, letting his eyes trail down to the girl he was cradling to him. He’d approached at a jog, his eyes alarmed, keeping a short distance away. By the time he had gotten close, Lovegood was brushing the hair out of the girl’s eyes, exposing to him who it was. The lifeless, now dull blue eyes of Hannah Abbott stared back at him, a trail of dried blood down the side of her mouth. He had been too caught up in himself to even have known that Hannah needed assistance. Too selfish once again.

He’d helped Dean, who’d had some sort of relationship with Hannah, bury her alongside the others, all except Theo, who he’d been too selfish to let rot in the ground there. He’d cremated him, keeping him in an urn buried at the bottom of his trunk. He never took it out, never looked at it, never allowing himself to dwell on it. He did know that he did the right thing by Theo though. He knew he wouldn’t have wanted to remain here, after the war was long over and Draco was long gone from this place. He couldn’t just leave him in the middle of Scotland, in the middle of this eternal battleground. 

Everyone else stood back silently, solemnly as they watched them lay her to rest. It was always quiet, too quiet by wartime standards, when they’d buried someone. Tonight, it had also been cold, their visible breaths all lingering in the air as they stood there. Draco had to find out what had exactly happened from Lovegood, who’d told him that Hannah had been knocked down an unknown curse from someone she didn’t recognize; he’d been wearing a mask. The curse caused her to seize on the ground uncontrollably for a few minutes as Dean desperately tried to hold her still, to comfort her, until her heart finally gave out, exploding in her chest like a balloon. He’d never seen or heard of anything like this before. It scared him; the amount of dark magic in that spell. He could smell it on her as he approached. It clung to his body even after he’d showered, scrubbing himself raw. 

He now sat at the table again, of course he did, alternating between sipping and pouring the whiskey sitting in front of him. He ran his hand through his still-damp hair, pounding his fist into the table in frustration. He  _ should _ be toasting in celebration that he’d fulfilled his promise to his best friend, even if that promise was commiting murder. Killing Nott was one kill that he’d never regret; that man had done more heinous things than five Death Eater recruits combined. He looked the man right in his eyes and watched the lights leave them, just as Theo wanted him to do. Instead, he was wallowing, as if he ever did anything different.

He was just more than half of the bottle in when he heard the creak of the old wooden floorboards just outside the kitchen. He could already guess who it was before he turned his head around. The small figure of Granger stood in the doorway reluctantly, craning her neck so that she could see him sitting there at the table, throwing back another glass. She was wearing a thick pair of leggings and a large jumper, but she still looked cold, hugging her hands around her abdomen nervously. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying. She looked more battered than usual, as she’d had a rough go of it with Mulciber. She had a cut in her brow and a limp in her step, though he wasn’t sure what had happened there. “Welcome back to my pity party, Granger. Come to drown your sorrows?” He drawled sarcastically, gesturing to the empty room around him with his glass. 

She stood there for a moment, an uneasy expression on her face as she did. She chewed her lip, as she often did when she was thinking hard. The combination of the two put a cute wrinkle in between her brows, though he’d never admit to thinking such a thing out loud. She let out a breath, and looked at him, as if she just really realized that he was sitting there, though she’d been looking at him for at least fifteen seconds now. She shook her head, so as to bring herself back to reality, before replying to him. “Oh,” She said, “Um, yeah. I guess I’ll be attending tonight.” She hummed to herself, staring dazed out the window, where it had begun to snow light flakes, before moving towards the cabinet.

She aggravated his already pounding headache by the racket she was making whilst trying to get the pot down from the highest shelf, where someone taller than she must have put it. Draco closed his eyes and willed the noise to stop, hoping that when he opened them again, she, along with the noise she brought with her, would disappear. Much to his dismay, both were very much still present, though he didn’t mind the former as much as the latter. In fact, he really didn’t mind her company most days, even if she was insufferable sometimes, nagging him over and over again about things he never listened to. He was often partnered with her for dueling practice, as they had seniority and Aberforth believed them to be the best duelers, the best fighters, that the house had. He wasn’t wrong; Granger, despite her flaws, was a force to be reckoned with; she could be ruthless when she needed to be. Him, well, he wasn’t going to sell his abilities short. He knew that he was capable, that he was rather gifted in this area. 

He was sort of glad they’d been partnered together, despite the fact that she still nagged him, telling him that he wasn’t doing things the ‘proper’ way. Of course, he did the same thing to her, which infuriated her to no end because she can’t accept the fact that someone can know more than she does. But, what he did enjoy about working, or even talking, with Granger, was that she was able to challenge him like no one else ever had. She was able to intellectually hold a conversation or a debate with him over whatever the issue of the day happened to be or challenge him physically in training, not allowing him to let his guard down, to get sloppy, to get lazy. He even liked arguing with her. He liked that; it kept him on his toes.

But right now, he was in no mood for her games, or more specifically, the noise she was making; her company he could handle, possibly enjoy, but not this. Draco rose to his feet and in three quick strides, strode across the kitchen to the cabinet. He reached over her, taking the pot off of the shelf just as Granger was readying herself to levitate a chair over to stand on. “Couldn’t a simple  _ accio _ have sufficed, Granger? Or do you have to give me such a raging migraine at two thirty in the morning?” He grumbled, placing the pot down as gently as he possibly could on the stove. He shuffled back to his seat, sliding into it whilst refilling his glass. Her face was flushed pink, her eyes glancing down at the floor. “Thanks Malfoy and um, I honestly didn’t even think of using  _ accio _ .” She mumbled. He almost chuckled at her embarrassment; it wasn’t often that Granger got flustered like this. 

He watched as she made her milk concoction, an expression of intense concentration, a face reminiscent of their days at Hogwarts. The aroma of it filled the room as it had the last two times she’d barged in on his ritual. She sat down in the chair opposite, the same chair she’d sat in the last two nights she’d spent here with him. She sipped, no, slurped, her drink as she peered over at him through the steam rising up over her mug. She looked as if she were studying him, but her eyes had a foggy quality to them tonight as well, something he didn’t think he’d ever seen in them.

“Do you have no qualms about staring, Granger?” Draco asked, running his fingertip lazily over the rim of his glass. Her already blotchy cheeks turning even more flush. She looked away almost immediately, embarrassed. She slurped another sip of her drink, her hands cupping the mug for warmth. “I, um, was just thinking about Hannah. I didn’t mean to stare.” Hermione said rather quietly. Draco hummed and nodded solemnly. They were all thinking about Hannah, at least on some level. She was here longer than most, a somewhat comfortable presence around the house. She was always talking, always sitting in the living room or the kitchen, always around. She often tried to converse with Draco, though he never really gave in and actually spoke to her. He’d shagged her once though, a long while ago. He couldn’t stand that she’d died; he didn’t know how much more death he could handle.

They sat like that in silence for a few minutes, drinking as Draco tapped his fingers against the wood. It was Hermione who finally broke the silence, ruining Draco’s contentment. She carried a curious spark in her eyes and her brows were furrowed again, as they were when she first entered the room. “You shouldn’t feel guilty.” She said, looking as if she were still trying to piece him together. Draco looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. “Pray tell, Granger, why do I feel guilty?” He brought his glass to his lips and was mid-sip when she replied, “I could see it, how guilty you were. I could see it in the way you were looking at that boy, the one you…” She trailed off, swallowing hard, “The one you killed tonight.” She finished. Draco choked on his whiskey, slamming his glass against the table as he coughed. 

“W-what?” Draco rasped, still attempting to catch his breath. “You alright, Malfoy?” He nods before repeating what he had said. “You didn’t think anyone noticed, but I saw it. I saw the look of abject horror on your face, as if you’d just murdered an innocent child.” She said, rather calmly while he stared at her in disbelief, trying his best not to look shaken by her quite accurate observation. “I, um…” Draco trailed off, stumbling over his words, his eyes falling away from hers to the table. “You shouldn’t feel guilty,” She repeated. “He was the one who killed Hannah; he was no innocent.”

Draco’s eyes widened and he tried to blink away any semblance of surprise. That boy was so young, maybe sixteen, seventeen, probably someone that Draco would have cohorted with in his time at Hogwarts. And yet, this boy, this child, whom he looked at and saw his best friend in, had killed an acquaintance of his, a, for lack of a better word, innocent girl. He wasn’t really sure how to reply to such a statement, just staring off into the dark of night through the window, allowing the heavy silence to take over again. It didn’t last long, but it wasn’t Hermione who broke it this time; it was Draco. He spoke and when he did, he said something that he never would have admitted or even thought of telling her if he was sober. “It wasn’t guilt,” he said, pouring himself some more whiskey from the bottle before placing it down on the table. “It was horror on my face, but not guilt.” He took a pause to throw back a sip, closing his eyes for a second to relish in the burn. 

When he opened them again, he met her eyes, gold flecks prominent in her irises. “I thought that he was someone else and it scared me shitless. It terrified me to my core and I was horrified by the prospect that I could do such a thing.” Granger looked at him curiously, intrigued by his ambiguity. “Who did you think he was?” She asked. Draco stayed silent, looking away again, embarrassed. He shouldn’t tell her, he shouldn’t tell anyone, but for some reason or another, one that his inebriated brain couldn’t comprehend, he wanted to tell her. He let out a long sigh, shaking his head. He raked his hand through his hair, now almost completely dry. 

He must have been taking too long to answer because Granger asked the question again, a sensitive tone in her voice. “Who did you think the boy was, Malfoy?” She asked, her eyes kind. She sounded mousy, much quieter than she had been before. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to do it, but he told her the second she finished speaking, not even giving her time for a breath, or more likely, so he didn’t have any time to dwell on this potentially bad decision. He met her eyes, heavy with sorrow and spoke, “Theo Nott.” He breathed out, dropping his head into his hands, rubbing the stubble on his face warily. He’d never spoken of Theo with anyone after he died. It was always too hard. Granger was one of the few people left who had lived in the house when Theo had died. Like everyone else in the house at that time, she knew how close they were.

There were few people who would even understand what had happened with Theo, but he believed Granger to be one of them, having seen as much tragedy as he had. “Malfoy…” Hermione said consolingly, leaning forward in her chair, hands cupping around her, now mostly empty, mug. Draco looked up from his hands and was shocked to find empathy in her features and not that of pity. He wasn’t sure if he could handle any more pitiful faces gazing at him, thinking that he needed saving, that their pity on him would somehow help him. “It was only for a split second, but I…um, he looked just like him.” Draco paused, struggling to voice the words he’s never uttered before. “I thought I’d killed him all over again.” His voice was near silent and if it wasn’t quiet enough to hear a pin drop, then Hermione might not have heard him, but she did. He dropped his eyes to the window again, doing anything he could not to meet her eyes, to see the pity grow within them.

He choked back his entire glass full of firewhiskey and slammed the glass down against the table so hard that it made a dented ring in the old wood, causing Hermione to flinch. She didn’t say anything, but her actions spoke volumes more than her voice ever could. Before Draco could pull back, or even realize what she was doing, Hermione had placed her delicate, but calloused due to years of battle, hand on top of his own. It was warm and slightly clammy as she slipped her fingers through his. At the feeling, he immediately turned his head to look into her amber eyes, now swirling with understanding. His hand felt almost comfortable in hers, adjusting his light grip as he decided whether or not to curl his fingers around hers. He didn’t jerk away or make any snide remark, in fact, he didn’t speak at all for a while. He only stared at her and she him, a silent conversation happening between two pairs of eyes. His brows were furrowed, while one of hers was quirked up. They were studying each other like a potions experiment, trying to understand the other’s motives, their reasonings behind their actions.

“I know you’re not going to listen, let alone believe me, but you need to hear me.” She held her eyes wide, her gaze level with his. “What is it, Granger?” He asked, trying to sound nonchalant, removed, but failing to do so. “You didn’t kill Theo, Malfoy.” She paused, brushing her thumb gently over his bruised knuckles, sending shivers down his spine. He almost pulled away, but he felt as if he couldn’t move. “I know that it’s hard to hear, trust me, but you have to hear it. He  _ chose _ to take that curse for you. He  _ chose  _ to jump in front of you.” Her warm eyes flickered down to their entwined fingers for a moment before looking back up to meet Draco’s swirling silver eyes. Draco knew that and that's what bothered him. He didn’t believe he deserved Theo sacrifice. Merlin knew that Theo was a hell of a better person than Draco is. On more than a few occasions, Draco found himself drowning his sorrows in a bottle, wallowing that it should have been him instead. Theo deserved a better life, a better family, a better friend. He’d given everything up so that Draco could live, and he’d never understand why. Fulfilling his  promise was the least he could do to repay him. Merlin knew he deserved it.

“I knew Theo, definitely not as well as you did, but I knew him all the same. He may have come off as selfish and a bit crude at times, but he cared about you. He was a good person underneath all of his sarcastic bullshit, well, he even was with it. He was selfless, at least when it came to you, as much as he didn’t want to admit it. He knew very well what he was doing when he jumped in front of you, when he took that curse for you that day.” Draco’s eyes trailed away from Hermione’s, looking anywhere but into hers. He couldn’t face her, he just couldn’t. He could feel the tears building in his eyes and he didn’t want to appear weak in front of her. He’d never spoken about that day with anyone, never given so much as a word if it was mentioned. He’d once punched Seamus Finnigan in the jaw for so much as bringing it up. 

“Look at me.” She said, her voice gentle, but still stern, demanding in a way that only she could master. Leave it to Granger to be bossy while trying to be delicate; once a swotty Gryffindor, always a swotty Gryffindor. He looked up all the same, not strong enough to resist, albeit reluctantly. Her eyes were glowing, a rampant curl hanging over her face, touching her nose. Her cheeks were flushed still, but she kept her calm disposition as she spoke reverently. “You need to hear this: Theo took that curse because he loved you and nothing you said could have prevented that. You need to understand that.” She spoke slowly and clearly, making sure that Draco was getting what she was saying.

Draco sat there, staring at her with an emotionless expression. He wasn’t sure what to say or what to do. The tears were looming over him again, threatening to spill. “That boy was  _ not  _ Theo.” She reiterated. “I know that.” Draco whispered, his stomach in knots. It was true. He did know, he just didn’t  _ really  _ know. She shook her head, squeezing his hand lightly, “I don’t know that you do.” She says lightly. He doesn’t answer, looking down at their hands. Draco shakes his hand out of hers, pulling it into him to rest against his midsection self-consciously. She was right, of course, as she always was. In his mind, he knew it wasn’t Theo that he’d killed, that it was a Death Eater, and not just any Death Eater, but the one that murdered Hannah. Always smiling, always talking, always here, Hufflepuff Hannah, as innocent as one could be in this shithole of a war. She didn’t deserve that and the bastard that killed her deserved to die, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d done something wrong, that it really had been his best friend. 

“You’re hearing me, right?” She asked. He nodded, “Yeah.” He stated simply, his eyes falling on the glass sitting in front of him. “Good.” He drained the liquid from it, sitting silently for a short while before pouring himself more. Granger was quiet too, seemingly closed off inside of herself, her eyes blank. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just sat there, watching her as she watched the table, the window, anywhere but him. The low, flickering light of the room danced in her eyes, the flame wavering in the pure gold specks. Her posture was tense, never fully relaxed, though he could tell that she was trying to come off as if she was. He let his mind wander to how her hand felt in his, how warm it had been, how it had steadied him, but shocked him all the same. It felt like her hold on him was keeping him grounded in the moment, keeping him from falling too far into his rabbit hole. Truth be told, it terrified him how normal, how natural it felt, as if they’d been doing it for years and years. He felt the urge to grab her hand again, just to see if it gave him the same feeling of comfort, or reassurance, but he resisted. 

Finally, after fifteen minutes of silence mingled with slurping, Granger stood up. Draco, having finally taken his eyes off of her, looked back up to see her. She looked exhausted, probably more so than he did, dark circles prominent under her eyes. She brushed off non-existent lint from her leggings before taking hold of her mug as she pushed in the chair she’d been sitting in a moment ago. Hermione let out an audible sigh as she trudged her way slowly to the sink, where she placed her mug, not as loudly as he expected, but loud all the same. She turned around to look at him, her back against the counter. He eyed her curiously as she opened her mouth to say something, but closing it a moment after. She shook her head, looking down at the ground before looking up to meet his silver eyes. “I’m glad you killed that boy.” She said, pausing as she took a breath. Their eyes were locked on each other, silver and gold, unwavering. “And I’m glad you killed Nott. Theo would be proud of you.” She says, her voice quiet, but even, strong. Unable to find the correct response, Draco nodded. “Goodnight Malfoy.” Hermione said, leaving the room just as Draco voiced his goodnight. 

He felt the ghost of a smile grace his face for a second as he saw her disappear into the darkness of the hallway. It took a few minutes to gather his wits, or at least, what was left of them. Her words, somehow, some way, made him feel… lighter and he wasn’t sure why. When he composed himself, he poured himself the rest of the bottle of whiskey. He let out a long sigh as he raised the glass, shaking his head at the prospect of having to do this once again. He shut his eyes for a minute, his arm suspended in the air before he spoke. “Hannah Abbott, may she find the peace we’re all seeking.” He downed the glass in one go, swallowing it so quickly that he’d almost choked on it. He sat there for a minute, head in his hands, thinking, before bringing himself to stand up, placing his glass in the sink next to her mug before walking out of the kitchen, leaving the room vacant, save the small flickering light sitting upon the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up some time soon, possibly within the week if I'm lucky.
> 
> Don't hesitate to leave comments or kudos; I love hearing feedback from my readers!!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at dilemma-ed (followbacks at dil-emma-ed) for updates on this story and my other WIP, Broken, previews, fic recs and general posts about Harry Potter:)
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Em


	4. Ernie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm back with another chapter; this one's a bit dark, but really, the story as a whole is.  
> Also, I'm so overwhelmed with all of the amazing responses to this story:)
> 
> BIG thanks to my beta closer-to-monkey for helping me out!!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Em

It was two months, only sixty-four days later, when Draco was once again in the kitchen, only this time, he was too restless to sit down. Instead, he was pacing, bottle in one hand, glass in the other as he walked in long, quick strides back and forth, back and forth. After about fifteen times back and forth, he concluded that the room was too small, too enclosed. He felt as if he were on display, even though there was no one else to see him. There was only one small window that sat to the side of the table, the only thing visible through it was darkness. He felt trapped in there, in the room, in the house, in the war, in the world. All of it felt like it was closing in on him, holding him prisoner in his own life, if it was indeed his to begin with.

He was no longer a puppet to his father, and hadn’t been for a while, but he still felt like someone was tugging at his strings. He felt as if he had lost all control, lost all of his sanity and tonight was his breaking point. It was a long time coming to be completely honest; he’s been half-mad for years, slowly deteriorating. Tonight was the night that he finally did go truly insane. He could feel himself falling away, falling deeping into the hole that was his mind. His head was pounding and he couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t stop the flow of toxic thoughts from invading his brain. It was too much. The whole thing was too much; this war, this fight, this life.

He was panicking, panicking worse than he had in years. Probably the worst since before Theo died. After Theo died, he had been numb to everything, numb to the world. Always expressionless, always emotionless as he sat there, keeping everything locked away. He never let himself break down, to truly feel the emotions that were inside of him other than rage. Rage had taken over all of them, of course, like the drinking was a coping mechanism for ignoring all his problems. That was what he was feeling right now as he attempted to prevent his inevitable descent into madness.

It was tonight’s battle that set him off, well more specifically, what happened there had set him off. He was asked by Aberforth to sit this one out, but he wouldn’t give him a reason as to why. He couldn’t comprehend why Aberforth would want his best fighter to sit out a battle for absolutely no good reason when they so desperately needed a win. There was no progress being made, absolutely none. So, naturally, he adamantly refused to sit out, going against direct orders. He took one of the extra portkeys when Aberforth wasn’t looking and when it began to glow, he pressed it, being pulled by his navel into the place of battle.

He almost laughed at the sordidity of it all once he got there. Standing just over the horizon, just past the treeline, stood his home of seventeen years: Malfoy Manor. His breath caught in his throat as he looked at the building. The white exterior seemingly untouched by the horrors of the war, but the stench and thickness of dark magic in the air gave wind to the contrary. Anyone else who looked at this place might have believed it to be untouched, but Draco could tell that something horribly wrong had happened here. There was no life left on the property, in the air surrounding the once beautiful structure. There were no more white peacocks, once his father’s pride and joy. There were no more exotic flowers in the gardens that his mother tended to day after day, year after year; only simple shrubbery was left in its place. It was unnaturally quiet, all of the songbirds either dead or gone away, as if he blames them; if he had wings he’d fly away too. The floral smell was gone completely, now replaced with dark magic and the stench of death. The wrought iron gates were tarnished, beginning to rust with wear, though it wasn’t noticeable enough for the common person to see. Only with years and years of wandering the grounds was Draco able to see past the seemingly perfect exterior of the Manor. 

He just stood there, staring at the place he had once called home, the place where he would play exploding snap with Pansy, play quidditch with Blaise, read alone in the library. It was the place where he first learned to ride a broom and wave his wand. It was the place where he spent his childhood. He tried to remember how it was before, how serene it used to be, despite the palpable tension between him and his father. It was still his home, at least it was, before his father invited Voldemort to come and live with them. From that day on, until the day that he ran off with the Order, Draco felt like stranger walking through the corridors that had at one time felt more familiar than anywhere else. 

He hadn’t been inside, or even seen the Manor, since before Potter lost the Battle of Hogwarts. It was the night before the battle that he had last been inside, last been in his own bedroom, which now probably housed Voldemort’s precious snake or muggle-born slaves. He shivered at the thought, repulsed by the sour taste it caused to take form in his mouth. He wondered if any of his things were still there, though he knew they probably weren’t. His father was never the sentimental type, especially not with those he disowned, and with his mother dead and Voldemort living there, he was sure every trace of his existence was now gone from the house. 

His mother. He clenched his eyes shut as he thought of her. He thought back to the last time he had seen her. It was at the battle, of course. She was standing there next to his father, looking repulsed by him, their hands not touching, her eyes pleading with Draco from across the courtyard. Unlike his father, who was pleading to go to him, to cross back over onto  _ His  _ side, his mother was begging with him to make the right decision, to remain put on the right side, the side of good. Her expression was one of defeat, as if she had known and accepted that she was going to die that night for what she did: for doing the right thing. In the end, he had did as his mother wanted, what he wanted, instead of what his father expected of him. The look of utter disappointment on his face that day was etched into his brain forever, but his mother… Well, his mother had the hint of a smile gracing her glossed lips, perfect still, even after hours of battle. She looked proud and that was all that really mattered.

That was the last time he had ever seen her. After what was left of the Order, and Draco along with them, retreated from that battle, he had heard rumors that his mother had been executed for his disloyalty to the cause, for her betrayal. He was told that she had had her skin turned inside out, though he wasn’t sure if it was true. What he did know was true, was that she’d been left to rot; he was sure of it. She was not given an easy death. Many of the Death Eaters had used it to try and wipe the stoic expression from his face, to try to elicit some form of emotional reaction, but they rarely got a twitch of his lips these days.

As he began to approach the Manor, his stomach began to twist and recoil. It was worse the closer he got, as if his body knew exactly what unspeakable horrors happened here. It was trying to warn him, but he wouldn’t back down. He wouldn’t abandon a battle. As he began to approach from a weak entry point on the backside of the property, he felt an arm tug at him. He turned around to see Granger, her eyes furrowed, her face dusted pink from running. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?” She asked breathlessly, looking utterly confused. “I’m here to fight, just like you, I imagine.” He quipped, his voice teetering on angry. He tries to move against her, to remove his arm from her grip and keep walking towards the mission, and more inevitably, his father. “You’re not supposed to be here.” She stated plainly. “I’m aware, but I’m not going to sit out on a bloody mission for no good reason.” He pulled on her arm again, becoming increasingly frustrated when her grip only tightened, fingernails piercing into his his left wrist, or more specifically, the Mark. 

“Let go of me, Granger, or so help me–” He growled, his voice laced with ire. “Or so help you  _ what _ ?” She repeated, her eyes fired with anger. He scowls, but can’t think to say anything in return. “There was a perfectly acceptable reason to why he didn’t want you to go and it’s sitting right over there!” She pointed with her free hand to the Manor, dark skies contrasting the white marble of the building. “He needs to stop acting like I’m an incapable child; I can fucking handle  _ myself _ !” She just clenches her jaw and shakes her head. Her curls were blowing away from her face in the frigid January wind. “It’s not a question of whether you’re capable, Malfoy. You’re abilities on the battlefield aren’t in question. It would be stupid to think that you’re anything less than the most skilled fighter in the house. It’s a matter of being able to handle this emotionally. “This,” She gestured toward the property. “Was at one point, your home. Aberforth didn’t want you to do anything rash. You’re known to be such, and rightfully so, when you see your father. He didn’t want to risk it tonight. This isn’t even a battle. It’s get in, get out without any lives lost.” Draco let out a puff of air, visibly seen in contrast with the cold air surrounding them. “I don’t care what he thought. I don’t want to sit out a mission. I do have self-control, despite what you may think.” He paused, looking down and kicking up a bit of snow with his boots. “It might have been my home in a different time, a different world, but it’s not anymore. It’s not the place I grew up in anymore. One look at the place and I knew that. This place is as foreign to me as it is to anyone else.” He looked back up to look at the house. “The only difference is, is that I know my way around. That makes me more of an asset to this mission than anyone else.” He finishes. 

She’s silent for a moment, her face turning away from his, looking out toward his one-time home. “Do you even know what the mission  _ is _ ?” She asked, her tone bitter, but her voice still quiet. He doesn’t answer her, but just stares at the side of her face intently, his eyes narrowed. “Didn’t think so.” She said half-mockingly, her voice almost non-existent. “Oh tell me, Granger, oh all-knowing Goddess of Swots,  _ please  _ tell me why we’ve come here.” He said in a sarcastic drawl, rolling his eyes. She turned her head back to face him, her cinnamon eyes locking on his silver ones. Her face was solemn, her eyes sunken in from years of exhaustion. “We’re here to rescue prisoners. We caught wind from a reliable source yesterday that your aunt has been keeping Neville in the cellar for over a year. There are others there too. Prisoners of You-Know-Who’s, prisoners of your father’s. Some have been there for years. We don’t even know if most of them are still alive.”

Granger finally let go of his arm after she assessed that he wasn’t going to muck everything up by going dick-first into the mansion to go to murder his father. She had been squeezing so tightly that the usually red and irritated skin around his Dark Mark was bleeding slightly. He didn’t even care, as he couldn’t even feel anything in that spot anymore, nothing but the hum of burning pain that has radiated through it since he received it at the age of sixteen. “I’m not going to send you back, even though I probably should.” She conceded, cursing under her breath that he was going to make her regret this. “You  _ do  _ know this place better than any of us, Malfoy, and I can’t dispute that.” He nodded as she kept speaking. “You’re going to stick to me, alright? You’re going to do as I say. If you do anything rash, I won’t hesitate to send you back.” Draco rolled his eyes and drawled a response, “I’m on the edge of my seat waiting for my next order, your royal highness.” She whacked his arm, “I’m serious, Malfoy.” She said, her lips pulled into a thin line. He sighed, conceding to her whims, just once, “Fine.”

The mission was a long one, with a lot of waiting and a lot of silence. They’d succeeded, of course, but not without a fee, a toll in blood. It was as if the war couldn’t give them a break, give them a single thing to be relieved about, even happy about. Ernie Macmillan was killed by none other than, Draco’s own father, Lucius. He looked Draco dead in the eyes as he did it, a sneer twisted up on his lips as he muttered the words. His face was cold and unfeeling as he didn’t even turn away from his son to see the man he’d just killed crumple to the ground. Draco was trying to get to him, shooting hexes, spells, curses, anything and everything at his father, but he couldn’t reach him in time. By the time he’d got there, Lucius had apparated away. He was the only one able to do so, as the blood wards allowed it. Draco had lost that ability when he’d turned his back on his father, on the Dark Lord. 

Granger was right, of course she was. She was always right. He did act rash when he saw his father, but he doesn’t regret trying to kill him. The bastard deserved it after what he saw. He saw red when he walked into that cellar tonight. He smelled the rot, the suffering, the shit and the piss and the vomit of people who had been deduced to nothing but a life, if you could call it that, of being completely catatonic. It reeked of death, There was blood stained on the wall, decaying flesh and blow flies laying in piles on the floor and to heaps of tattered clothing barely covering human beings that were starved almost completely. They had been reduced to bones and flesh, their heads barely staying up as the chains that held them made their whole body sag. Their wrists were so thin that they could slide the shackles halfway up their arms. It made him sick.

Of course, that wasn’t even the worst of it. When they were gathering the prisoners, Draco went to the back corner to go inspect, to see if there was anyone else who was still alive. He was just about to turn back around when his eye caught the glimmer of something. He furrowed his eyes curiously and approached the body, well, the skeleton long forgotten, and kneeled next to it. The person had been long dead and completely decomposed, but what was left of its tattered clothes remained on it. Judging from the clothes, it was a woman. He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath, willing himself not to think of what this poor woman had gone through. If he had to venture a guess, rape and endless torture. He shuddered at the thought.

The object that had caught his eye was a necklace. He held his breath and took it into his hand and flipped over the pendant. His eyes widened immediately at what his saw, his body skidding back a few feet as he turned to his side to retch up the contents of his stomach. His heart was beating wildly, his breath quickening at an alarming rate as he looked back at the skeleton… It couldn’t be… It was impossible...  Draco turned and retched again, the bile burning his throat more than the firewhiskey he was currently drinking ever could. His eyes welled up with tears as he crawled back towards the bones. 

He wiped his mouth and took the pendant in his hand again, examining it carefully as he tried to prevent the sheer rage from building up in his chest. The pendant was one he had seen many times before, but had not seen for many years now. He would still recognize it anywhere. It was a white gold pendant of an elegant snake with a emerald in the center. Having been Goblin-made, it still shone as it had years before, never rusting, never tarnishing. It was his mother’s necklace. This was her body, all that was left of the woman who raised him. He wanted to weep, to hold her in his arms and cry, but he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. Instead, he once again retched, taking away all that was left in his stomach as he clutched the pendant dearly. 

“Malfoy?” He heard a voice call his name from behind him. He didn’t turn around to see who it was. He knew who it was already. “A-are you okay?” Granger’s voice called. He breathed out a sigh, not answering her. He took the necklace off of his mother and pocketed it, his stomach still churning with bouts of nausea that he wasn’t sure would ever subside. Numbly, he conjured a blanket and quickly, but carefully, he wrapped her bones in it, biting back tears as he did. One slid down just as he stood up, pressing his mother’s bones to his chest protectively. Granger’s eyes were curious and filled with tears as she saw what he was doing. She couldn’t have known who it was he was carrying, she was just bones now, but the gesture must have seemed kind to her bleeding heart. 

That was why he had tried to murder his father tonight. It was why he went directly against Granger’s orders and done something rash. Perhaps, if he were a moment quicker than it would have paid off, his father dead and Ernie still alive, but he had failed once again. He had more hatred in his heart towards his father than he’d ever thought possible. He’d allowed his mother, the woman he’d supposedly cared about at one point or another, to be tortured, raped, murdered, starved, and left to rot. He’d never been more disgusted by a human being in his life. It made him sick to his stomach.  He’d screamed at his father as he ran to try and reach him, to kill him, but all words were lost. Lucius was unfazed by any of it. Even the comments he made about what he had done to his mother, about what he’d allowed to be done to her because he was too much of a coward to stand up for her. He’d seen her bones in Draco’s arms and had done nothing but glance at them, as if she meant nothing to him. 

When they’d finally returned home to the house, Draco had sat in the cold with his mother, apologizing profusely to her for all he’d done and all that had happened to her at his expense. He’d sat there long after everyone had gone inside, after they had buried Ernie, alone in the dark. He’d sat there for hours until he could no longer feel his appendages, until they were as numb as he was. He hadn’t even thought to cast a warming charm, but he didn’t care enough to anyway, so he’d sat there in the snow. He finally allowed himself to cry, his hot tears freezing as they made their way down his face. His poor mother, the woman who sacrificed everything for him, was here now. He had failed another which he loved, first Theo and now his Mother. 

He’d gathered what was left of his sanity and cremated his mother, doing the same as he did for Theo, not wanting either of them to rest eternally in this house. He’d put her ashes in a ceramic jar and lied them in his trunk next to Theo’s. She’d deserved better than to be left here. She’d already been left to rot in the cellar of her one-time home. She’d deserved better than what she got in life, so he’d try to make it up to her in death. He would kill his father for this. For this, and many things, he’d make him suffer. 

So now he was pacing, pacing still as he had been for the past forty-five minutes, drowning out the pain with whiskey. The necklace, his mother’s necklace, his one reminder of her, sits on the table. Every few minutes, his eyes would flicker there, to remind himself that it was real, that what happened tonight did indeed happen. Just seeing it made the tears pool in his silver eyes again. He shook his head, feeling the anger bubble up in his chest and the disgust churn in his stomach. His breath became more ragged as he allowed himself, though he shouldn’t have, to think about what his mother must have experienced in her time as a prisoner in her own home, at the hands of her own husband, the other Death Eater and perhaps the Dark Lord himself. 

He drained his glass, the burning still fresh in his throat as he threw it across the room, shattering against the wall, drops of the amber liquid drip down the white wall. Not feeling relieved of his anger, he grabbed a glass pitcher from the counter and chucked it, an array of glass shards scattered all over the room. He grabbed object after object, mostly small bowls and plates and throwing them angrily against the wall, hoping that with each one, he would slowly calm down, his rage subsiding. He took a long swig from the bottle he was still clutching in his left hand, white knuckled, before reaching over to grab a chair from the table to throw along with the rest, when he heard footsteps down the hall

“Malfoy!” The voice shouted, and he halted, the chair in mid-air. “Malfoy.” She said more quietly, soothingly. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he looked at it, his breath laboured. “Put the chair down.” Granger said into his ear, her breath warm on his face. He didn’t move, neither throwing the chair, nor putting it down, the only noise was his harsh breathing, filling the room. She squeezed her hand on his shoulder, taking a step in toward him so that her body was inches from his back. “It’s not going to solve anything. Trust me, I’ve tried it.” She whispered, the words only for him. He turned to look at her, his face so close to hers that it scared him, her nose practically touching his cheek. “Put the chair down.” She repeated calmly but sternly, in a way that only she could. 

He wasn’t quite sure why he did, but after a moment’s hesitation, Draco closed his eyes, releasing his shaky breath, his anger still present, but lessened. When he opened them again, he lowered the chair back to the ground with a bang. Hermione released her hand on his shoulder and Draco turned around to face her. Their faces were inches apart, his breath coming out in hot puffs on her face. “Hey,” She said, centering himself in front of her so that he was forced to look at her. “Just breathe, okay? Calm down.” She placed her hand on his, rubbing his knuckles on the hand that still held the chair. He nodded slightly, so slightly, he was surprised that she could see it. She took a step back and pried Draco’s grip from the chair he was still holding onto for dear life. She pulled the chair back to the table and took his hand in hers and guided him to it. Her hand was warm, as it had been on the night that Hannah Abbott died.

He sat in the chair, his eyes staring dumbly in front of him at the necklace. The hand that wasn’t clenched in hers, still gripping the bottle of whiskey. He brought it to his lips and choked back a long sip, a small trail running down his chin. Hermione let go of his hand and moved back towards stove. With a wave of her wand, she repaired all that Draco had broken, all the meaningless object that he’d shattered. She placed his glass in front of him and he let go of his death-grip on the bottle, after filling the glass to the brim. She then proceeded to do as she had the previous nights, making a ruckus as she lit the stove to make her concoction. “Do you want tea?” She asked politely, wiping her palms on her joggers. He shook his head and mumbled a no, his eyes never leaving the serpentine shaped pendant. 

It was only a few moments later that she sat in the chair opposite him, mug in hand, brown eyes wide. She took a sip of the sweet-smelling liquid and let out a small hum of contentment. They sat in silence, her studying him and him studying the object which he had not seen for years. Her stare finally wavered as she glanced from Draco to the necklace sitting at the center of the table. “Was that hers?” She asked, her voice small. For a moment, Draco didn’t even realize that she’d spoken, as he’d been too wrapped up in his overthinking to notice. When he did, he cleared his throat and nodded. “It was.” He picked up the pendant carefully, as if it would break if he didn’t, and turned it over in his hand, running his finger over the emerald. “It was a wedding gift, from my gutless, piece of shit father. It’s an heirloom actually,” He narrowed his eyes as he examined the piece of jewelry. “It’s supposedly been passed down through ten generations of Malfoys to their wives.” He drawled, flourishing the bottle around while he spoke. “It’s supposed to be a gesture of love eternal within my family.” He rolled his eyes, giving a snort at the statement, as if it were ridiculous. 

He ran his finger over the back of the necklace, over the motto, the words he’d been raised to uphold: ‘ _ Sanctimonia Vincet Semper’  _ or, in English, ‘ _ Purity Will Always Conquer’ _ . Those same ideals were the ones ripping the world apart, killing everyone. He tossed the necklace back down on the table gently, clattering against the worn wood. “‘Love eternal’.  What utter  _ bullshit  _ that is. If he ever loved her, she never would have ended up there. He let her suffer there. He let her die there, like a prisoner in her own goddamn home. He’s fucking despicable.” He spit, the words flowing like a poison off his tongue. He threw back the rest of the glass and slammed it down, topping it off again. 

They sat again quietly as silence wracked the kitchen, the only sound being the sipping of their respective drinks. It’s Hermione who finally speaks, clearing her throat before she does so. “May I?” She asked, reaching for the necklace, her fingers hovering over the delicate metal. Draco nodded his assent, his head down, but his eyes firmly on her. He pushed his platinum fringe out of his eyes with his left hand, letting out a breath as he did so. She picked it up as carefully as he had, her brow gaining the cute wrinkle between them that comes when she’s thinking. She studied it, every line, every indent, every detail, her tongue slightly peeking through her pink lips. She fingered the emerald, running her thumb over the snake’s eye, trailing it down the body, her finger feeling each of the ridges with excruciating care. 

She places it down in front of her and lifted her cinnamon eyes to meet his pewter ones. They were filled with sorrow, the golden flecks weeping behind the glassy exterior. “I’m sorry Malfoy; I really am. I didn’t know her, of course, but I’m still sorry. Losing a parent… There’s nothing quite like it.” She said understandingly reaching out her hand to place it on top of his. He flinched away before relaxing into her warm touch, accepting it. “I don’t want pity, Granger.” He said, tearing his eyes away from hers, but not moving his hand. He wanted to, but it was too damn inviting, too comforting.  “It’s not pity,” She replied softly, “I’m being kind. I understand what it’s like to lose someone you love, especially a parent.” Draco lifted his head and quirked his eyebrow curiously, not wanting to pry, but he was having a hard time giving a damn. “Hmm?” He inquired gruffly, taking another sip of whiskey, closing his eyes as it burned. 

Hermione opened her mouth and then resealed it, closing her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth, before opening them again, shimmering with tears. She fingered the necklace on the table, glancing down at it before meeting Draco’s gaze. “I…” She trailed off, looking into her mug, no longer steaming in sweet swirls. She shook her head and forced herself to look back at him. He could tell it was a sensitive subject, not that he was surprised. Her parents were muggles in the middle of a war meant to wipe out her and their existence. Whatever the situation; it definitely wasn’t a good one. He wasn’t sure why he did, but he squeezed her hand lightly, barely even enough to be recognized as a squeeze. She looked at him and bit her lip, finally forcing herself to say her piece. “I, um, obliviated my parents in the summer after Dumbledore died, after sixth year. I sent them to, um, Australia and they think their names are Monica and Wendell Wilkins. They, um, they,” Her voice broke, a tear dripping down her face. She wiped it away quickly letting out a breath through her lips. “They don’t remember that I even exist, that they ever had a daughter. I did it so that they’d be safe, but this war… It’s spread so far, killed so many and I have no way to know if someone found them, if they’re even still alive.” She said, her voice so quiet that Draco actually held his breath so he would be able to hear her. 

She licked her lips, taking a small sip from her mug. “I know it’s not the same as you, but…” She trailed off, her eyes looking into the empty space next to him. Draco sat there staring at her for a moment, taking in all of what she had just told him. She was so strong, stronger than he’d ever been. To look her parents in the eye and to will herself away from their memories, just so they had a sliver of a chance of survival… It was… beyond selfless. Of course it was, this was Granger he was talking about. A woman more selfless than most of the people in the world, yet so ruthless when she wanted to be. If anyone was going to be one to do such a thing, it was going to be her. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair again. 

“You’re right,” He whispered, “It’s not the same, but it’s just as horrible.” He added. She looked up and met his eyes once more, surprise etched in her expression. “You sacrificed your happiness so that your parents could be safe. You literally wiped yourself out of their lives, as if you’d never existed in their eyes, just so they could have a semblance of an opportunity at surviving this shit. The fact that the world has come to the point where you had to make that choice, at the age of sodding  _ seventeen _ –” He broke off, huffing out a bitter laugh. “It’s not fair; it’s not right–in fact, it’s downright fucking horrid. This world, this war, it’s horrid, it’s fucking awful. It’s amazing how horrible people can be to one another without so much as a flicker of compassion, a sliver of empathy. If anything has been proven to me in this war, it’s that human beings are capable of more terrible thing, more evil, than I’d ever have thought possible.” He finished, chugging down the glass he’d just topped off, shaking his head in disgust as he did so.

Hermione just nodded, swallowing heavily, probably choking back tears. Tears for her parents, tears for the fallen, for the horrible things that people do to one another, tears for the world, so that one day, this will all be over, so that they no longer had to fight to live another day. There were far too many tears shed in this war already, too many lives lost, too much suffering at the hands of the innocent, of children who were forced to become soldiers. He could feel them building behind his eyes as well, though he’d be damned if he cried in front of her. His loose lips had left him too vulnerable tonight already. He couldn’t afford to shed any more tears. 

Not too much later, perhaps twenty or so minutes, Hermione took her hand off of his. It had been resting there for a while, though Draco didn’t actually  _ want _ to move it. He was acutely aware of its presence, more so than of the enemy on a battlefield. He was even more aware when she removed it, leaving his hand colder than it had been before, his fingers numb from where she wasn’t warming them with her touch. He clenched his hand into a fist, trying to ignore the empty feeling growing within him. It was the same feeling he got the last time she touched his hand. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the silent gesture made more of a difference in him than most words could.

She stood up, sweeping her mug off the table and placing it into the sink rather loudly. He’d prepared for it that time, bracing himself for the noise that was about to cut through the silence that hung between them. He kept his eyes in front of him, his eyes out the window, one hand clamped around his glass whilst the other was pressed into his abdomen. He listened to her footsteps as the got further away, the patter stopping suddenly. He turned his head slightly to see her out of the corner of his eye, standing with one hand holding her steady against the doorframe. “I know it won’t bring her back, or make it any better, but for what it’s worth, I really am sorry.” Draco gave a nod of thanks, his lip curling up for a fraction of a second. “Goodnight Granger.” He slurred, turning his head the rest of the way, tipping his glass in her direction. She gave him the smallest of smiles along with a two-fingered salute. “Night Malfoy.” She said softly, turning on her heel, leaving Draco alone to wallow in his misery.

He drained the rest of that glass, refilling it with the last of the liquid from the bottle that sat to his right. He took the necklace in his free hand, wrapping the chain around it until it was wound tight. Taking a breath, he pressed the cool metal to his lips, closing his eyes as he did so, willing himself to imagine a world with his mother still in it, with his best friend still in it. A world where his father wasn’t as horrible of a monster as he was now, where he didn’t allow his wife to rot in a cell in his home, in  _ her  _ home. A world where Granger never had to erase her parents memories, one where they met every Saturday for tea. A world where he’d much rather live in, rather than this piece of shit world of suffering, of pain.

He begrudgingly removed the necklace from his lips and instead pressed it to his heart as he lifted his glass out in front of him with his other hand. He held it there for a moment, suspended in the air as his heart weeped in his chest, weeped for his mother, for Theo and for all the things he’d failed to do to save them, to prevent them for suffering their horrible fates. Of course, for Ernie too, whom, if he’d been a second or two quicker, he would have been able to save. Poor Ernie; he didn’t deserve it, none of them did. For them and so many others, Draco took a breath, “Ernie Macmillan,” He paused, willing himself to finish so that he could go to sleep, entering his other realm of endless nightmares. “And Narcissa Malfoy,” His voice broke, but he swallowed the sob and continued on, “May they find the peace we’re all seeking.” He whispered, his eyes burning with unshed tears as he brought the glass to his lips, draining it as he clenched his mother’s necklace, his one tether to her, to his heart. 

He put the glass down on the table, pocketing the necklace as he yanked on his hair as hard as he could, frustrated once more by this awful situation, by this terrible world. He let out a haggard breath, knowing that if he didn’t get up now, he’d end up staring at the wall all night until someone, likely Aberforth, came to find him there in the morning. He couldn’t deal with the scolding, the questions. So, he swallowed his pain, standing up and trudging over to the sink where he placed his glass next to Granger’s mug. He found himself staring at it for a moment, though he hadn’t the slightest clue as to why. He couldn’t shake the empty feeling that still plagued him, but he tried to ignore it. He shook his head, remembering what he was supposed to be doing, forcing one foot in front of the other until he exited the kitchen and shuffled slowly, fists clenched, to his room, where he knew he’d spend the night staring at the ceiling, his mind moving at a pace faster than he could handle.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up within the next few days or so, as it's already written and I'm just tweaking and editing here and there, so you won't have to wait too long.
> 
> Don't hesitate to comment or leave kudos; I love hearing feedback from my readers!!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at dilemma-ed for updates and previews on this story as well as my other WIP, Broken, fic recs and general posts about Harry Potter!
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> Em:)


	5. Katie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to get this chapter up quicker than usual, but unfortunately I don't think the next one will be up as fast.
> 
> As with every chapter, there's character death and this happens to be one of the darker chapters I have written so far.
> 
> HUGE thanks to my amazing beta, closer-to-monkey, for all of the amazing work she does for this story as well as my others. And, once again, I am absolutely astounded at the positive responses to this fic so thank you all for that:)
> 
> -Em

Ninety two days after Ernie Macmillan was killed, the day that Draco laid his mother to rest alongside Theo, another death occurred, leaving the safehouse in a solemn place of mourning. Katie Bell had replaced Oliver shortly after he’d passed and she hadn’t lasted all that long, having been killed in battle tonight. They’d all just gotten used to her presence, just to have it ripped away from them. She hadn’t even been here for a year. Draco hadn’t seen it happen, but heard the screams coming from other members of the Order standing nearby including Dean Thomas. He hadn’t believed it to be true until he saw her body lying lifeless in a puddle of mud, the image etched into his brain forever. Her eyes looked even emptier than when he’d accidentally cursed her back in sixth year, but of course they did; she would never again do anything as simple as blink them. She was dead, another person lost to this war. She was number twenty-two, the twenty-second resident of the house to be taken by this war.

Katie wasn’t the only warrior that the Order had lost tonight, however. The battle had taken place outside of the home of some higher up Death Eater, where a supposed meeting had been going on. Somehow, the Order was slipped information and devised a plan to catch them off guard, when they least expected it. The Order had stormed the house, fighting with full force against the Death Eaters. Just as the battle was ending, when they were getting ready to retreat. Draco had turned around just in time to see a shock of red hair taken down by a green light cast by his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange. She’d seen him standing there, horrified and awestruck, and laughed in an evil, shrill manner that made chills run down his spine. Draco’s eyes went wide, blinking hard, making sure that what he’d seen was indeed reality. He felt stuck in place, shocked. She disapparated from the battle, waving to him as she gave a wicked, toothy grin with her crooked mouth, leaving the stiff corpse of Ron Weasley on the ground, his hand still clamped tightly around his wand. In that moment, he’d never seen Granger run so fast in his life.

Draco was frozen in place as Hermione’s hands clasped over her mouth and she let out a blood-curdling scream. He hadn’t heard her scream like that since she’d been tortured in Malfoy Manor. It was a sound he could never forget, one that haunted his dreams. It was perhaps the most horrible noise he could ever hear; it was so raw, so broken. He didn’t know what to do; it felt as if someone put a sticking charm on his feet. As soon as she’d reached Weasley, she cupped his face in her hands and began to hyperventilate, which morphed into uncontrollable sobs only seconds later. She’d held onto him tightly, desperately clinging, not wanting to let go. The Weasley Girl, hearing Hermione’s cries of anguish, turned around, running toward the body of her older brother, an expression of pure terror spread across her face. Granger’s face was planted into Weasley’s chest, heaving sobs, while his sister’s head rested on Hermione’s shoulder, releasing loud gasps for breath as she clutched at his clothing with all she could.

Everyone began to disapparate back to their safehouses, retreating from the battle, leaving Draco standing there alone, watching the two girls fall apart at the seams. He ran to them, finally gaining his motor skills back, knowing that he couldn’t leave them there alone; they’d surely die. He grabbed Granger’s unoccupied shoulder as gently as he could, but still forceful enough to get her attention, stating, “Granger, we have to leave.” She didn’t budge, didn’t even give him a nod of recognition; she just kept crying, hugging his body close to hers, trying to hold onto what was left of him. The usually vibrant blue eyes of the Weasel looked dull, foggy, his hair matted with blood from an earlier blow, creating a shade slightly darker than his usual ginger. His skin was overall pale and had a greyish hue to it, the hue that all of the dead carried, the emptiness.

He pulled Granger’s shoulder up, so that she was sitting, but she struggled hard against him. “We have to leave, now.” He said firmly, trying to reason with her. She shook her head, trying to throw herself back on top of him. He’d never seen her be so affected by a death before, but of course, this was Weasley, one of three of the Twatty Trio, one of Granger’s two best friends. “Granger, stop. The wards will only be open for a few more minutes; we have to go.” He pulled her up onto her feet, grabbing her wrist rather forcefully, but, in that moment, he didn’t care about the bruises that would surely be left there later. He needed to get her out of here before anyone came back.

“I’m not leaving him here.” She said hoarsely, her voice shaky, almost cracking. “You have to, Granger.” He said softly, kneeling down, pulling the Weasley girl away from her brother. She was easier to move, as she seemed to have gone into a catatonic state. “Weasley, stand back.” He said to her, but she didn’t move. It didn’t matter; she was far enough. Draco took Weasel’s wand from his grip and pushed it into his pocket, so it wouldn’t be lost it travel. Granger was still trying to fight him, putting all of her strength into trying to get closer to Weasley, but he was holding her back far enough. He grabbed the chain around the ginger’s neck, grasping onto the portkey, careful not to activate it. “DON’T YOU DARE, MALFOY! DON’T YOU GODDAMN DARE!” He pushed it into him and stepped back, taking both of Granger’s wrists in his hands as she screamed in protest. With a crack, Ron Weasley’s body disappeared, returning to the safehouse from which he came. 

He was sure that he was bruising Granger’s wrists, but he couldn’t let her go; he wasn’t sure what she’d do if he did. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” She screamed, grunting as she tried to free herself from him, but he wouldn’t let up, holding her steadily against him. “I had to.” He whispered firmly, but gently enough. Her breathing hitched as she began to sob again. She was hyperventilating again, only a moment later, forcing him to comfort her before she spontaneously combusted. He removed one hand from her wrist and she immediately pounded on his chest with her fist with all the fight she had left, her amber eyes filled with fury. “Easy Granger.” He warned half-heartedly, trying to lift her spirits, even a little bit. Her hits slowed only seconds later, her head falling into his shoulder with exhaustion and before he even knew it, her tears were staining his already sweat-stained shirt. He sighed, not really knowing what to do, his body remaining tense as she pressed her face into him. “Shh, Hermione. It’ll be alright. Just calm down.” He whispered in her ear, not knowing if it really would be, if she would be. He carefully ran his hand up and down her spine as he tried to soothe her. “It’ll be okay, Hermione.” He repeated, over and over again. 

It took him a moment to remember the red-haired witch’s first name, but when he did, he spoke to her far more gently than he’d ever spoke to a Weasley and he wasn’t even speaking as gently as he could. “Ginny, I need you to press that portkey in your pocket, alright?” He said, still struggling to control Granger as she pushed against him once more. She didn’t offer him a nod of recognition or any sign that she’d heard him, causing anger to boil up inside of him. She seemed almost catatonic, her cheeks as red as her hair, tears streaming down them in a cascade of despair. After a moment, he went to speak again, but before he could, her eyes flickered up to meet his, blinking once. Almost immediately after, she used all of the energy she had to reach the object and press it to her, causing her to vanish into thin air, leaving Draco completely alone with Granger, who seemed to have lost all of the fight she had left in her. The battlefield was eerily quiet, fog settling over it, bodies and blood adorning the field. It was silent, too silent, the only noise coming from Granger, who was alternating between sobbing and sniffling. 

Draco let go of her wrist and instead, wrapped his strong arms around her shoulders, securing her there in some form of an embrace. She didn’t fight him, she didn’t struggle, but he held her there anyway, close to him. She fell back into him, melting there, her sweet scent mixed with that of sweat, filling his nose like a toxin. He took a breath and thought of the safehouse intently, focusing on their destination, trying his hardest not to splinch her in her state. He braced himself as the sensation of being pulled through a narrow rubber tube rushed through him. It was never something that he’d got used to and was never pleasant. 

He’d brought Granger back to the house and she stood there, clutching to his shirt as if he was sanity itself for a few minutes, not moving from that spot. When he finally got her to move, he steadied her as she shuffled through the house, eyes wide and glassy, before delivering her to Lovegood, so that she could clean her up, maybe make her feel somewhat better than she is right now, but he doubted it. She’d probably make some obscene comment about Weasley’s passing and just upset her further. She couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop shaking and he didn’t know what else to do. Seeing her in that state gave him a foreign feeling in his stomach, a sort of pull that made him feel sick, nauseous. In fact, after he’d delivered Granger, he’d walked back outside and heaved into a bush until there was nothing left in his stomach, save bile. 

He found himself again sitting at the kitchen table; it was four o’clock in the morning and everyone had just settled down to bed now that all of the commotion had died down. They’d only buried Katie’s body a few hours ago, standing silently around the place where all their dead lie for a time afterward. The house felt abnormally quiet, even though Weasley wasn’t a resident, he was still a notable member of the Order whom everyone knew, even if he was an adequate wizard at best. He was a figure, alongside Potter and Granger, of hope, of the Resistance and now he was gone. Draco still didn’t like the man and he knew that they never got along, not that he wanted to, but it still felt strange knowing that he was gone. He was honestly surprised that he had lasted this long, but he knew that now wasn’t the time to make cruel jokes. I guess it goes to show how much this war changed him over the past six years. 

He felt drained from the day’s events, but he knew that he had to do this, he needed to; he was a creature of habit. He brought the glass he’d just refilled slowly to his lips, taking in the liquid. He could feel his insides get warmer as it entered his bloodstream, but not making him feel any better. So, he poured himself another, almost spilling it over the brim, but catching himself a fraction of a second before he did. As he lifted the glass to his mouth to drink, he heard someone enter the room; judging by the light footfalls, he already knew who it was.

Granger was hunched over, her arms crossed, as she stood in the doorway. Tonight, she was wearing a long-sleeved red tee-shirt with a pair of shorts that barely covered her arse. His eyes settled on hers, which looked swollen and red-rimmed to the point that they were raw, like she’d been rubbing them for hours on end, which she probably had been. Her chocolate orbs were glassed over, a vacant expression filling them as they looked at him. It was almost as if she were looking through him, as if she couldn’t see anything in that moment but empty space. Her cheeks were flushed and tear-stained and her nose pink from blowing it. She was chewing on her chapped bottom lip, but then again, of course she was; he wasn’t surprised about that anymore. She looked more composed than he’d thought she’d be and she definitely looked better than before, as she was no longer struggling to breathe as she sobbed. Her hair was combed now, though he could almost bet that it was Lovegood who brushed it for her. Though she looked beautiful still, in a raw sort of way, but she did and he wasn’t sure why he thought so. It was so real and yet so unconventional. It was beautiful in a way he’d never seen before, but beautiful all the same. Her appearance struck a chord within him, making him want to comfort her, to bring her closer to him. He pushed both thoughts out of his mind with a cordial head nod. 

Granger’s chapped lips parted as she inhaled a deep breath through them, releasing it almost immediately, but shakily and slowly. “I should’ve known you’d be in here.” She whispered breathlessly as she moved towards the cabinet to grab the pot. He didn’t say anything, not knowing how to reply to such a statement and instead, drank the liquor that he held in his hand. He thought that she was angry with him, upset that he made her leave Weasley, but she didn’t seem angry, just broken, shattered, numb to everything around her, and he didn’t blame her for it. She’d lost one of her best friends, one of the two people she’d been closest with since the age of eleven. He watched her wordlessly as she made her sugar milk quieter than he’d ever seen her do anything other than read. 

He wasn’t so sure he liked this mellow Granger, it was oddly unsettling. She seemed so unsure, so skittish, as if the world would come crashing down if she made one misstep in her routine. As much as he wanted her to shut up most of the time, he never meant for her to be shut down completely, just for her to stop talking every once in a while, to stop beating him with the bloody book. He placed his glass back on the table refilling it once more as she came over, sitting carefully in the chair next to him instead of her usual seat across from him. He tensed up a bit, feeling slightly uncomfortable at their close proximity, her hand only inches from his.

Her small hands wrapped around her mug and she licked her lips before taking a small sip, slurping as she does, quieter than normal. No matter how broken she was, he guessed, some things would never change. “You alright there, Granger?” He asked, studying the sadness in her eyes, trying to read it. He knew that she wasn’t, how could she be? She’d just lost one of her best friends, even if he was a ginger prick, a tumor in Draco’s side for years. For all Draco knew, she could have been in love with him. He certainly wouldn’t be surprised if she was, everyone thought they were together.

She shook her head slowly, “I don’t think so.” She whispered, her eyes still staring blankly in front of her, the ghost of tears already shed behind them. One of her eyebrows were raised and her lips were parted, her breathing flowing evenly in and out. He wasn’t expecting such a blunt answer from her, maybe just a muttered ‘I’m fine’ at best. At least she was being honest with him. He guessed that was a step in the right direction. She released a sigh into her mug, taking another gulp of sugar milk before placing it back down. 

It was strange seeing Granger like this, so detached from the world, stuck inside of herself. He’d never seen her this out of it before. She’d always been forward, talkative, and sometimes loud– who was he kidding– usually loud, always willing to share her opinion. She was nothing if not persistent (or persistently annoying depending on how you looked at it), nagging him, and everyone else, until she got what she wanted. She was a stubborn wench. It seemed to be a trait that even a war couldn’t beat out of a Gryffindor. In the past few months, Draco came to realize that he liked that about her; he liked how she acted when she thought no one was looking. It was so natural, carefree and he liked it. It usually made its appearance when she was reading, staring down with wild eyes at the pages. She’d twirl a single curl around her finger, enthralled at what she was seeing. Here, she looked so lost, so frightened; she looked like a shell of who she’d been just a few hours before. He would never admit it, but it unnerved him a bit; if the Brightest Witch of Their Age, their Golden Girl, was breaking, falling apart at the seams, was there really any hope for the rest of them? 

He’d been spending more time out of his room lately, it felt as if the walls were beginning to close in on him, so he found comfort in the one place that he thought no one would bother him: the library. He’d been wrong because, of course, that’s where Granger usually is, so by default, he’d been spending quite a lot of time with her. Maybe it would be a stretch to call her a friend, but that seemed to be on the track of where they were headed, no matter how much the term worried him. They’d argued plenty still, usually heated debates over facts rather than constantly being at each other’s throats with a wand whilst shouting degrading insults at one another. He liked the challenge of trying to keep up with her, trying to break her stubborn exterior. They didn’t always talk though, sometimes they just read, sitting in chairs opposite each other, not saying much, but it was still peaceful, comforting almost. Sometimes he’d just watch her, biting her lip in concentration as she focused in on a word, on a tome, furrowing her eyebrows; he wasn’t sure why, but he felt intrigued by it, by her. There was something beautiful about it. She’d been right about one thing though; you could lose yourself in that place; it made it seem like the world, the war was so far away. He liked it, albeit he was reluctant to admit it, but he did. He actually  _ liked _ spending time with her. He would never tell her, but talking to her made him feel just a little bit better about the world they lived in, gave him some hope.

He watched her carefully, his stony eyes observing her every move, which wasn’t many, as she was very still tonight other than the fact that she’s still shaking uncontrollably. It really wasn’t like her to be this broken; she’d always been the strong one out of her group, out of everyone. He drank his firewhiskey quickly, placing the glass back down immediately to refill it, but not taking his eyes off of her. When she finally spoke, it took him by surprise, he wasn’t sure if he was hearing her correctly. “Malfoy?” She squeaked. He raised his eyebrows, “Yes, Granger?” He asked. She looked almost unsure, her brows knit together in struggle with her morals. “Can I have some?” She gestured toward the bottle he still had his hand on, now half-empty. She spoke quietly, gently, as if she would break if she spoke any louder. He raised his eyebrows at her, taken aback by her words. He thought about telling her no, just to stir a conversation, maybe an argument, just to get her to talk, to force her out of her state, but then he thought better of it, her eyes were pleading with his, glimmering with the remnants of past tears. He nodded and moved the bottle over her mug and tipped it in, letting a generous amount to slip into it. “Thank you.” She said, her eyes moving from his to the mug, which she brought to her lips, taking a generous swig. 

She visibly made a face of disgust from the burning, but it faded after a moment. She took another sip, barely hesitating after swallowing the first one. “He was my best friend; I haven’t seen him for a while… months, maybe a year, but he still was. He was… Seeing him… like that… I just… He looked so… empty…” She trailed off, her dark brown opals shifting to look into his silvery ones, shimmering with tears. “I know.” He said simply, not knowing what else to say. He did know, though, what it felt like to see someone who was practically family lying dead on the ground, eyes vacant, breath stilled. 

“I know you didn’t like him, but he was special to me. He was always so… full of life. He was very opinionated… He could be a right git sometimes and we were always arguing but… It’ll never be the same without him… He was my best friend… Now it’s just Harry and me and I don’t have the slightest clue to where he is or what he’s doing because it’s too damn dangerous to contact him.” Her eyes glimmered, bringing out the golden streaks in them, giving them an even more radiant glow. He knew just as well as she did how dangerous it is to try and contact anyone, especially the prat Potter. She took in a sharp inhale, “I just can’t stop seeing it, seeing him.” She shook her head, as if to knock herself out of a trance. She turned her head, her eyes flicking up to meet his, “Do you still see him? Theo?” She said, her voice so quiet. She tensed up immediately, as if he was going to lash out for simply mentioning him. Draco did flinch at his best friend’s name, but he didn’t yell, didn’t stand up in a fit of rage. Instead, he simply gripped his glass tighter, sipping it before responding. “All the time.” He said, breaking their eye contact by looking straight ahead at the wall. She nodded, releasing a breath through her lips as she swallowed hard. She sighed, running a hand through her unruly curls, her fingers tangling in them. “I can’t help but think that it was my fault; that if I’d run to him sooner…” Her voice was breaking as she spoke, the glimmer of tears returning in her eyes. He didn’t allow her to finish her statement, speaking immediately with a clearing of his throat. “You can’t think like that Granger. You can’t dwell on it. There was nothing you could have done.” He said hoarsely, but gently. She nodded slightly swallowing another sip of her hybrid drink.

They were silent for beat or two, the only sound coming from Granger’s rather loud breathing as she stared at nothing. He hoped she wouldn’t bring up the whole ‘prying her off of his body and allowing her to sob against his chest’ bit up. It wasn’t something that he particularly wanted to discuss, as it wasn’t exactly a comfortable topic of conversation. It was Draco who broke the silence, not really thinking about the words coming out of his mouth before he blurted them out. “Did you love him?” He asked, running his hand through his hair nonchalantly before he could stop himself. He thought about holding back, but he just couldn’t help himself; he had to ask. He felt as if he needed to know, even if asking was insensitive. He wasn’t sure why he was compelled to ask, compelled to know, but he was.

She hesitated, biting her lip as she contemplated what to say or whether to answer. Her silence worried him even though it shouldn’t have; it made the pit in his stomach grow larger as he gulped down more firewhiskey. She spoke quietly when she did, he could barely hear her. “Not like that. For a while... I thought that I did… I thought we were destined, I mean everyone seemed to think so… but I was wrong. R-Ron and I,” She paused, choking back a sob at the mention of his name, “We were nothing more than friends and I knew that as did he. Maybe in another world...” She paused, lingering on the words. She blinked exactly twice, clearing her throat before continuing, “Why does it even matter, Malfoy? He’s  _ dead _ .” She didn’t blink once as she stated it, not once, her voice scarily even. When she finally did, a single tear made its way down her face, but she wiped it away before it could reach her chin. He wasn’t sure why it mattered, he wasn’t sure why he asked in the first place. The only thing he knew was that he needed to know and he felt almost relieved at her answer, he wasn’t quite sure why though.

She took back another sip of her sugar milk and whiskey combination, perhaps a little too quick than what she was prepared for. His eyes widened as she began to choke on it, coughing without break, tears forming in her eyes. Draco moved his arm to her back without thinking, rubbing circles gently. “Easy, Granger. Don’t kill yourself.” He said as her coughing fit died down. She was struggling to even out her breathing, to refill her lungs with air. “Maybe don’t take that much next time.” He said, taking his hand off of her back, forcing out a chuckle. She stuttered out a reply, coughing in between words, “I guess I didn’t really think that through.” He pressed his lips into a half-smile. “I don’t know how you do it. It burns like hell.” She whispers, still choking on the breath she’s yet to catch. “Years of practice. It’s a special skill, though I definitely don’t pride myself on it.”

When she finally caught her breath, she shifted her body towards him, her face closer than she’d ever been, even closer than she’d been when she was examining his mark. He could count the few freckles that were scattered across the bridge of her nose like milk chocolate shavings. They were almost invisible from far away. He could see the tear streaks that stained her cheeks from earlier, when she’d cried so much that she couldn’t cry anymore. He had a strange feeling in his chest that he couldn’t quite place as he felt her breath so close to him, tickling his neck so much that he had to hold back a shudder. “You called me Hermione. Earlier.” She whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming, causing his eyebrows to shoot up into his hair. “You’ve never called me that before.” He hadn’t realized it at the time; he’d never called her by her given name before. She’d always just been Granger, nothing more. “Oh.” He said lazily, finding himself at a loss for words. 

His heart was beating rather erratically, so he tried as hard as he could to steady his breath in the hope that she wouldn’t notice that it was becoming more uneven by the second. He could hear his heartbeat in his ear and prayed that it wasn’t actually as loud as it sounded to him. He felt heat creep up his cheeks; they might have even changed shades; he didn’t know. He could smell her scent, a combination of vanilla and strawberries; it was perfectly sweet, complimenting her in a way that no other scent could. It was so perfectly Granger. It filled his nose, going straight to his head, making him dizzy, making him forget where he was. He swallowed hard, getting lost in her eyes, her beautiful, mesmerizing eyes, like pools of golden brown. The skin around them was a raw bright crimson from rubbing them, but it made her look appealing in a different sort of way. He licked his lip, releasing a shaky breath. 

He wasn’t sure what exactly happened after that; he wasn’t sure how it happened either. He didn’t know who leaned in first or if it was a mutual effort, but somehow he ended up with her lips pressed against his, their breaths entangling together desperately, but gently at the same time. Her taste was more intoxicating than the firewhiskey that was coursing through his veins, making him want more, drawing him in closer. She tasted of a combination of sugar milk and alcohol, sweet, yet bitter. Her hand moved to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to her, her fingers intertwining with his blond locks as her nails dug into his skin. He didn’t care if it hurt; he was enjoying himself too much to notice. He felt as if he needed this in a way he’s never needed anything. His right hand found her upper arm, steadying her as his left travelled up to her hair, tangling it into her curls. His tongue teased hers, running up and down the length of it, causing her to release a small moan into his mouth, tickling the back of his throat. He smirked into her soft but chapped lips, moving his hand from her arm to her waist, his fingers curling around her. She bit his bottom lip in desperation, pulling it towards her hungrily. He grunted into her mouth as she released it. It was a different sort of kiss than he’d ever experienced before.

He was disappointed as she pulled away sometime later, her forehead pressed against his, leaving him wanting more. They both were panting, trying to gain their breath back. He’d never felt a kiss like that; it was so gentle, yet bruising and passionate. His hand moved from her hair to her cheek, caressing it with his thumb as he stared into her endless eyes. “Draco…” She cooed, trailing off, her breath scorching on his neck. He liked the sound of his given name on her lips; it suited her. His lip almost quirked up into a smile at the sound. He licked his lips, lapping up all he could of her delicious, addictive taste. Her hand remained on the back of his neck, exploring his silky white-blond hair with her fingers, twirling the short hairs. He felt something in his chest, a weight lifting off of it, replaced by a subtle warmth as they sat there, foreheads pressed against each other. He knew that now that he had tasted her, that there was no going back. The tightness in his trousers made sure of that. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep her at an arm’s length like he had everyone else. He was evidently fucked, breaking his only rule. 

There was still a sadness in her eyes, lingering there. He knew he couldn’t make it go away, but he hoped he could take her mind off of it, at least for a little while. A single tear inched down her cheek and he wiped it away gently before it could get very far. The tear, the sorrow in her eyes, the redness of her cheeks, the sniffling of her nose all made him stop for a moment. It started to make him think, make him question the selfishness, the inappropriateness of what he had just done. “Granger, what are we doing?” He breathed out, not moving his forehead from hers. She blinked once before answering, her eyelashes fluttering. “Call me Hermione.” She replied, her eyes never leaving his. He nodded against her forehead, pulling her in closer to him at the waist, so that her leg was in between the two of his. “Alright… Hermione.” The word felt comforting, but foreign on his tongue, leaving a warm tingle there, a better one than the firewhiskey could procure. He leaned an inch closer to her, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before returning to his former position. He took in her scent again, trying to memorize it desperately, as if it would disappear if he didn’t. She released a staggered breath, her cheeks were still flushed a bright pink color.

That night, Draco and Hermione sat next to each other at the table, her head on his shoulder and his arm around her waist protectively. She clutched the hand there, making sure he didn’t move it from it’s spot. It was awkward and strange, but neither of them seemed to care because as strange as it was, it felt right, natural. He wasn’t sure what followed, but he tried not to let it bother him in this moment as they sat there. Although he knew once they went back to their respective rooms, they would have time to rethink the kiss, rethink anything that happened tonight, deeming it as a mistake in a moment of weakness. He wanted to postpone that, to let himself, and her, enjoy this bubble of peace in his chest for just a few more minutes before it disappeared, before it died off like everything else in this war did.

He’d poured the last of the Firewhiskey out of the bottle, splitting it between the two of them. He raised his glass toward the air in front of them and she followed, her eyes sparked with curiosity. “Katie Bell,” He said, his voice clear. He shifted his eyes to look at Hermione, “And Ron Weasley,” He paused for a moment to look at her; she swallowed hard at the mention of the Weasel. “May they find the peace we’re all seeking.” She nodded and brought the mug to her lips as he did with his glass, taking it down in one go. He didn’t know why he did this in front of her, but he did. He didn’t care; he needed to do it, whether she was here or not. She didn’t seem to mind, although her eyes filled with tears for her fallen friend. He wanted to comfort her, to make her hurt go away; it was a strange feeling. He didn’t like seeing her cry, seeing her so upset, so raw. It pulled at something in him that he couldn’t quite place. Draco looked on at her, not knowing what came next, both for them and the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So... oof... A lot happened...
> 
> With any luck, the next chapter should be up within the week!!
> 
> I love hearing feedback from my readers so don't hesitate to comment or leave kudos!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at dilemma-ed (followbacks on dil-emma-ed) for updates and previews for this story and my other WIP, Broken, as well as fic recs and general posts about HP and writing!
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Em:)


	6. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!  
> Sorry it's been so long; I got caught up reading instead of writing and I apologize for the two week wait. I'll try to get the next one out much quicker.
> 
> A HUGE thanks once again to my beta, closer-to-monkey, for all the work she does for me with this story and others:)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!!

 

It was fifty-five days from the day Draco and Hermione entangled in a kiss, from the day that Ron Weasley and Katie Bell had been brutally murdered, that another tragedy struck. Dean Thomas was who they’d lost that night, leaving the house once again in great strife, as if that ever changed. The pain never stopped these days, constantly eating away at him and everyone else like the scar on his left forearm that never ceased to burn. Dean was killed whilst locked in a duel with Pansy Parkinson, Draco’s old flame, whom he wasn’t surprised to find out had joined the Death Eater ranks, willingly, he might add. She’d always been one to blindly follow orders, to do whatever her father told her to do, what he himself told her to do, a sneer on her face as she did it proudly. She hadn’t a thought in her head that was her own; a perfect follower, minion, if you would. She’d killed Dean without hesitation, turning the blood in his veins to mercury until his heart finally gave way to the poison. She was cruel, she always was, always would be. Theo had always told him so, not that he’d listened, he’d always been too distracted by the fact that she was sucking his dick to care.

Draco never had the misfortune to have to duel with her, if he had, she’d probably be dead. He hated her, he hated the choices she made and the person she had become. She had never become her own person; she allowed others to shape her into what they wanted her to be: a warrior, an assassin, a bully, a tormentor, a submissive, a pureblood daughter, a decent shag, a murderer, a Death Eater. Looking back, some the rather nasty things she used to say rivaled even that of his own. The difference was, she was still saying them and worse, and in addition, she was murdering innocent people. Draco had no sympathy for such a person. They were friends in a different world, if you could have even called them that, where Draco was a much different person than he was today, a more horrible version of himself. He clenched his eyes shut and took a drag from his cigarette, a rarer occurrence these days, since the ashy scent reminded him so much of Theo, but he needed this tonight. With his free hand, he waved the bottle of whiskey over his empty glass, refilling it to the brim with the honey-colored liquid.

Dean had been a resident for a long time, at least, for here anyway; his presence was everywhere in the house, from his bedroom where all of his belongings reside, to the bathroom, where his toothbrush still sat, to the kitchen where he’d charmed his favorite cereal so that no one could touch it without growing boils on their arse. He wasn’t the closest with Dean, but then again, Draco wasn’t close with anyone. He found this death hard to swallow, even still, as Dean was always someone who was an avid presence, always loud, always around. As much as it pained Draco to admit it, given that the man was a Gryffindor, he was going to miss him. He was one of the more pleasant ones over the years. He’d spent many a nights watching telly with him, among others, as he explained the concept of cartoons to each newby who’d joined them. They were considered lucky in the world of the war to have such an object. It was such a simple thing really, but it made all the difference when you were trying to break through the blinding white noise. 

This was their twenty-third death, twenty-fourth if you counted Weasley, since he’d been here, and it never got any easier. He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding at the feeling of emptiness within the house. It was as if it sensed that Dean was gone, never to return through its front doors. It was strangely quiet when they’d arrived back tonight without him. No one dared to speak as they buried him alongside the others, laying him to rest next to where Hannah Abbott was buried all those months ago. Draco figured that was what Dean would have wanted; it seemed like the right thing to do. It was the least he could do for the poor sod.

The battle tonight was brutal, messy, sloppy, mostly due to the fact that it took place in the ruins of a prison in France, a rainstorm making the conditions so much worse than they would have been if it had been a clear night. Instead, he could barely see fifty feet in front of him, the rain was coming down hard in large drops, soaking his his face, his hair, his clothing, his boots, the extra weight, as well as the lack of traction, making it all the more difficult to run. Between the storm and the sheer darkness, it became almost impossible to discern a bolt of lightning from a dark curse. The only identifier was the thunder, which he couldn’t hear because he’d become too focused on the battle in front of him, on his opponent, blood and adrenaline rushing in his ears. It was so dark that mud and blood looked as if they were one and the same on those running about the ruined area, an area that had been levelled by Voldemort’s forces the week before.

He’d killed another two tonight, not like it made much of a difference to his conscience at this point; he’d killed more people than most in this war. For some reason or another, he still kept count of them. After tonight, the grand total is now a terrific fifty-seven Death Eaters; fifty-seven people. They’d both been faceless, none that he recognized, but of course, even if he did know them, they had masks on. He’d refused to lift them off as they lay there in the dirt. He didn’t want to know whether he’d known them or not, whether he’d shared a bedroom with them at one point, if he went to school with them, or shared a train compartment. He didn’t want to know how old they were, if they were barely sixteen or in their mid-twenties. He didn’t want to know. The anonymity made it all a little bit easier when they were sixteen and completely clueless of the cause they’d pledged their lives to. The ones that counted, the ones that really mattered, never wore masks anyway. They were too proud of the monsters they were to cower behind them. 

Draco cracked his neck, letting out a pained sigh as he did, the tension releasing beautifully. He took a blissful drag of the fag, relishing in the feeling of the smoke in his lungs before releasing it in tendrils. The amount of tension he carried himself with these days was immense, he felt as if he was still tense in his sleep, never fully relaxing, his guard never falling, not even for a second. He supposed that was good in a war, constant vigilance or whatever, but it was taking a toll on him. The bags under his eyes were permanent residents on his face, never fading, never going away, as he never got more than three to four hours of sleep per night, whether the creek of the floorboards woke him, or he was plagued by nightmares that made him fear to shut his eyes. It was a cycle, a horrible cycle, much like the one he was completing now.

He rubbed his temples, trying to soothe his pounding head after taking down another gulp of the liquid he’d hope would numb it, though he doubted it at this point. It never subsided; his life was just one constant migraine that would never go away, at least not until the war ended, if it ever did. It was killing him slowly, just like everything else around here. Just as he closed his eyes, his temples still resting in his hand, propped up by his elbow, he heard the patter of feet, just barely heard over the sound blood rushing in his ears. He let out a deep sigh, praying to Salazar that it wasn’t who he already knew it was. “Evening, Granger.” He drawled, his eyes still closed, not even bothering to turn around to see her. He took another long drag off of his cigarette, savoring the feeling, the wholeness it gives him. He heard her breath catch in her throat at the sight of him sitting there, wearing a tight fitted black sleep shirt and an old pair of flannel pyjama pants he was too fond of to consider throwing away, despite the hole in the left pocket and the frayed tie around the waist. “I wouldn’t exactly call this the evening.” She said back, trying to make her voice sound even, but it came out weak, almost squeaky. He forced his head up, turning around to look at her just to roll his eyes. 

Speaking of tension, as Hermione entered the room, the air became filled with a different brand of it, choking Draco like a dark taloned hand wrapping around his windpipe. Especially after he saw her standing there, wearing the same white singlet she wore the first night she’d joined him here, her hands wrapped around her waist, covering the pale bit of skin usually exposed by the shirt, rendering Draco the slightest bit disappointed, but the position of her arms accentuated her cleavage, almost making his cock twitch,  _ almost _ . Her riotous curls were splayed haphazardly across her shoulders, leaving the white shirt damp and therefore see-through where it touched. Her lips were swollen from her chewing on them, making them look all the more desirable to him, not that she was trying. It was like a punch in the gut to see her standing so bare, so beautiful and raw. 

The night that Weasley died, when they kissed, everything changed between them. They’d stolen a few more light kisses from each other on the lips and some even on the neck in the heat of their desperation, but parted ways not too long after, going back to their respective rooms to, at least in Draco’s case, overthink what had happened to the the point of migraine. They’ve been avoiding each other, embarrassed about what had happened, not speaking unless they had to, strictly professional. Even their confrontations in the library stopped, as she would leave if she saw him there, making some excuse, or move far away, to the other side, away from him, and sit there silently. It was endlessly awkward and all the more frustrating. The longer they went without speaking, the further Draco descended into madness. She was one of the only people he could tolerate speaking to in this goddamn hell hole and he couldn’t stand not being able to speak with her, as much as it killed him to admit it. It was driving him insane. He  _ missed  _ her; he actually missed her. 

It was killing him to keep away, when he was constantly haunted by the feel of her velvety lips on his, her beautifully intoxicating scent. He missed her so much, even just talking to her, arguing with her. He liked getting her riled up about something she was passionate about so that her brows and sometimes her nose would get scrunched up in frustration, he loved proving her wrong and the way a blush would creep from her neck to the tips of her ears when she was. He thought it was cute, like the furrow she’d get in her brow when she’d concentrate hard enough on a map, battle plans, or even a book. He felt drawn to her, it was strange. Their whole dynamic, their quasi-friendship, their acquaintance, was strange, if he was being honest. He wasn’t sure what was so special about her, what was intriguing him so, but he gave into the desire he felt growing deeper into his chest regardless. He didn’t realize how much he’d actually enjoyed their interactions until they’d disappeared completely. She was a good conversationalist; she was intelligent, well of course she was. After all, she was still Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of Their Age, Golden Girl, Brains of the Trio, well,  _ Duo  _ now, he supposed. Not even a war could change that and he was glad. It gave him some sense of normalcy in this place, in this world. She was the only constant. She was the only thing left that was here when he arrived, save the structure. But he’s been deprived of it in the recent weeks, leaving him completely to his lonesome, save a few conversations with other residents and questionable speeches from Lovegood about the strange topic of the day.

Hermione stared at him, looking unsure of herself, as if she was debating whether to go back to her room and avoid confrontation with him completely. After a few moments of staring at each other, neither of them breaking the eye contact, not even when Draco took another drink from his glass of firewhiskey, Hermione moved out of the doorway, moving slowly to the counter, her bare feet shuffling against the floor. She looked tired, no, she looked exhausted, but as if she never wanted to shut her eyes again, like he did when he awoke from one of his nightmares. Now that he looked at her, really looked at her, he could see that she had a set of bags under her eyes that rivaled his own. There was something comforting, but yet unsettling about it.

“You alright?” He asked, not letting his voice become too familiar, forcing it to keep it’s edge, but he was sure that his eyes gave way to his concern. She stopped mid-stride, remaining in place for a moment, her back to him, before turning her head to face him, their eyes locking together. He took the last drag off of his cigarette, wishing that he hadn’t finished it before putting it out in the ashtray he’d put on the table–Theo’s ashtray. Hermione’s eyebrows were furrowed and she looked surprised, whether surprised at his concern or the fact that he spoke to her, he wasn’t sure. “I’m not quite sure that I am.” She said softly. Draco was taken the slightest bit aback by her brutal honesty, but he shouldn’t be surprised at this point; she never seems to sugarcoat things around him. In fact, it’s one of the things he admires about her. He opened his mouth to reply, but just as he does, she cuts him off, speaking before he could, “But don’t you worry your pretty little head, I’ll be fine, gone and out of your obnoxiously blond hair before you know it.” Draco absently ran a hand through said hair and narrowed his eyes at her, studying her, from her hands, shaky at her sides as they hung there limply, to her eyes, glassy, the color sparkling within them in utter despair. 

He let out a sigh and turned back around, away from her, taking a long swig of his whiskey as he kicked out the chair to his left, the one she sat in  _ that  _ night, offering it to her silently. He slammed the empty glass back down onto the table, taking the half-empty bottle into his hand so he could refill it. As he filled his glass once more, there was complete and utter silence in that room, as if she were contemplating his offer, weighing every aspect of it before coming to a decision. He shouldn’t be surprised, this was Hermione Granger he was talking to. When he finally placed the bottle back down in front of him, his fingers carefully curling around his glass, nails scraping against the smooth surface, he heard her move, one step, two steps, followed by the scraping of the chair against the worn, and in some places, cracked, tile. 

Hermione settled settled into the chair next to him, resting her hands on the table, still shaking profusely. She looked uneasy, on edge, at the prospect of being so close to him, but she didn’t falter, didn’t let it show. She bit her lip, looking down at her hands, refusing to lift her eyes to meet his, which were watching her intently, an expression within his silver orbs that was completely unidentifiable. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, holding his breath as he debated on what to do, unsure of what comes next. He can smell her, that wonderful, beautiful scent of strawberries and vanilla that could only ever be her. Just a whiff makes him want to bury his face into her neck, into her hair. He shook his head, willing the thought out of his mind, forcing himself to clear his head. He pushed his glass toward her, thinking maybe she needed it just as much as he did, his head still pounding with tonight’s horror. She hesitated for a short moment before wrapping her hand around it, inclining her head, “Thanks.” She said so quietly that he almost didn’t hear her.

She brought the glass of whiskey to her lips, taking down a large sip, shutting her eyes as she swallowed it, a shiver coursing through her body. She puckered her lips in distaste, shaking her head furiously, as if it would somehow lessen the aftertaste. He allowed himself a chuckle as she huffed, “That shit’s disgusting; I don’t know why I thought it would taste any better than it did the last time.” She pushed the glass back towards him and he took it back, taking a swig before replying. “I don’t know why you thought it would be either. It always tastes like that; you just get used to it or ignore it after awhile. Just like everything else around here.” He said, scraping the top layer of wood on the table with his fingernail. Hermione says nothing, only humming in agreement as she stared vacantly at her hands, which are still visibly shaking. 

She is back to biting her lip, which looks as if it hasn’t gotten relief in hours judging by how chewed it looks. He sits there, sipping and watching her with a soft expression that he’d surely be embarrassed by if he weren’t buzzed. If she noticed, she certainly didn’t let on, just looking straight ahead at her hands, still shaking beyond control. The expression in her chestnut eyes was a sad one, filled with despair and fear, as if she’d seen something that had truly shaken her. She looked like she was terrified to close her eyes, but so desperate for sleep that she needed to; a feeling all too familiar to Draco. He knew that feeling too well to wish it on her. A strange feeling arose in his chest at this realization and it greatly disturbed him that it did; he felt the urge to comfort her. He wanted to distract her, take her mind off of whatever it was that scared her so. He wasn’t sure why and he wasn’t quite sure that he wanted to know. He rationalized it by telling himself that it was just because she was one of or possibly the only person keeping his and the rest of the house’s sanity in check. She was a figure of hope and they needed her. Draco took another sip from his glass, draining it completely before placing it back down and restarting the process. 

She releasing a low breath, an uneven one at that, and begins fidgeting her fingers, playing with them to either distract herself or to cover up the shaking, but he barely looks away from the side of her face. His eyes trailed down from her face, still etched with tension, with worry, slowly to her hands as he took in a deep breath that he hoped wasn’t loud enough to attract her attention. It didn’t seem that it was, or once again, if she did she didn’t let on, as he didn’t see or feel her move next to him; other than her fidgeting and shaking hands, she was practically a statue, beautiful and unmoving. 

He stared at her for a moment, contemplating between what he wanted to do and what he rationally  _ should _ do. He shook his head, closing his eyes as he took another long sip of his firewhiskey, feeling it burn his throat as it went down. Before he could change his mind, Draco moved his hand slowly across the table and rested it on top of hers gently, steadying it. She stopped moving them immediately, in fact, she completely stopped moving, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t pull away though, not at all, which surprised him more than anything else. She turned her head to the side to look at him, her glassy eyes meeting his with great hesitation. Her eyebrows are furrowed, but she says nothing, releasing her lip from it’s prison, her mouth slightly agape. 

He looked away from her to down half of his glass of firewhiskey, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. She relaxes back into her chair as much it seems she can, but she’s still tense. Despite the tension in her posture, she turned her hand over in his, causing him to raise his eyebrows as she intertwined their fingers. It was his turn to be surprised, it seemed. His head turned to look at her on instinct and she lifted her eyes to meet his as she felt his presence. Her hand was sticky with sweat, yet icy and still shaking rather vigorously, but he squeezed her hand nonetheless in an effort to bring her some semblance of comfort. She inclined her head towards him and squeezed lightly back, so faintly, in fact, that he almost didn’t notice that she’d done it. He swiped his thumb lightly across her knuckles, looking down at the table just past their joined hands. 

She was still shaking, even minutes later, though it calmed down a bit from when he first took her hand. It was Draco who broke the silence. “What happened, Granger?” He asked in a low voice. A simple enough question, or at least, he hoped it came off that way. She shook her head, pursing her lips in contemplation before replying. “It’s starting to seem as if you actually care, Malfoy. It’s scaring me a bit, if I’m being honest.” He could see her giving him the smallest of smiles out of the corner of his eye. He snorted in reply, shaking his head, “Is it so bad? Would you rather me be cold and unfeeling?” He asked jokingly, the left side of his mouth quirking up into a half-hearted smile. “No, no, I’d much prefer this. I’m just not used to it.” His smile faded as he answered carefully, “Not used to what? Me being nice or someone being concerned about you?” Her smile vanished quickly as well, her hand loosening in his, but not shying away. She looked down at her free hand for a moment, studying it as if it were an important battle plan. She bit her bottom lip again, chewing at it relentlessly. 

It was almost a minute later that she finally shrugged and shook her head. It was about another minute after that when she finally looked up to find him studying her as intently as she was studying her hand. She looked as if she were on the verge of tears, her eyes shining with what was to come. When she spoke, a mere ten seconds later, her voice was hushed and laced with emotion. “I get…” She trailed off, cocking her head to the side as she considered her word choice. “Nightmares. If you want to call them that.” She blinked a few times, willing away her impending tears, “They’re extremely realistic. Most of them are variations of memories, horrors that this war has created.”

She closed her eyes tight, shaking her head, as if she were pushing a thought out of her head, before reopening them to meet his steel ones, laced with understanding, with empathy. He knew nightmares better than most; he too was ruined by them, destroyed by memories, variations of memories or even things that didn’t happen, but feel just as, if not more realistic. They terrified him, the ones about his mother, about Theo, about the war, the house, himself. They all stuck with him, plaguing him night after night, keeping him awake, keeping him at this table or in the living room watching infomercials on telly for hours on end until his eyes could no longer stay open. Most nights he’d kill for a vial of dreamless sleep potion, but they couldn’t afford it; it, like everything else nowadays, was on short supply. They had to give it to the people who ‘needed’ it. The last he’d received it was just over nine months ago and it had been the last blissful, full night’s sleep he’d gotten since.

Draco waited for Hermione to continue, knowing that if he pushed her, she’d likely shy away from him. After a few seconds she continued. “It was especially bad tonight. I think it had to do with the storm; I don’t like storms. They… unnerve me. I keep reliving the most horrifying things I’ve ever seen, things I’d never thought possible until they happened and it just…” She trailed off again, looking down at their hands. “It’s all just…” She trailed off again, seemingly unable to finish her sentence. He squeezed her hand, drawing soothing circles on the back of it. “Overwhelming and terrifying. It makes you feel like you’re trapped in your own head, in your own body, like you’ll never escape the pain, the horror.” He finished for her as she wiped away the tear that trailed down her face. She nodded, just as another one fell. She wiped it immediately, then pressed the heel of her hand into her eyes one at a time.

When she looked back at him, she had a curious look in her eyes, one of surprise, as if she never contemplated the thought that he actually knew what it was like to have night terrors, to be haunted by the things that happen and that you do every single day of your life. “Yeah,” He said in confirmation, “I get them too.” He nodded, breaking their eye contact to look down at the scarred wood of the table. He scratched at the Mark on his left forearm until there were red marks down the length of it, but it still didn’t satisfy it; nothing ever did. He threw back the rest of his glass of whiskey, refilling it and then draining it again just at the thought of his nightmares and what awaits him once he returns to his room. “Then I assume you don’t know how to stop them?” She asked, the slightest twinge of hope in her voice. He shook his head, “Unfortunately not,” He gestured to the ashtray and the bottle sitting on the table in front of him, “This is the only solution I’ve got. It doesn’t really even help” Hermione released a resigned sigh as she nodded, tapping her fingers against the table in order to break the silence that hung over them.

Draco finished another glass of whiskey in an attempt to distract himself from how good, how natural, her hand feels in his, despite her still shaking and her skin still clammy to the touch. Before he could even entertain the thought, he cleared his throat, words falling out before he knew what he was saying, “Sometimes breathing helps afterward, counting your breaths, counting your heartbeat; it helps to calm you down.” Hermione nodded once again, speaking softly as she faced him, “Good to know.” She was looking at him as if she’d never seen him this way before. He furrowed his brow, not breaking his eye contact with her, not even when she brushed a thumb over his knuckle, more gently than he’d ever expect her to touch him.

As he released a slow breath, he noticed for the first time tonight how close she was sitting. Her face was less than a foot away at the current second, so close that he could smell her spearmint toothpaste on her breath through her parted lips. He felt entranced by her, as if he couldn’t look away from those eyes, those brown eyes speckled with flecks of gold within them. They were fascinating, absolutely fascinating. They were beautiful and complicated, just like she was. She was gazing at him with an expression that he couldn’t place through her long dark eyelashes. He licked his lips subconsciously, the tang of alcohol lingering there. His free hand was still clasped around his glass, clenching it fiercely, as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded to reality.

Just as he was about to lean in, to close that small gap between them and do the thing he’d been practically dying to do for the past two months, Hermione let go of his hand. She abruptly pulled her fingers away from his, leaving him feeling empty and cold at the loss. She returned to biting her lip, placing both her hands in her lap as she looked down at them, finally gazing away from his eyes, which he was sure were now dark with desire. Draco cleared his throat, trying to break the silence without having to speak. He turned away from her, feeling rage begin to replace the lost sensation in his chest as he filled his glass, closing his eyes as he drained it like a man dying of thirst. When he placed the glass down, harder than he intended, Hermione started in her seat. She sat there for a moment, staring vacantly as she swallowed hard, her eyebrows set into a line as she gnawed at her lip before pushing out the chair she was set in. She stood up, her hands hanging limp at her side as she looked around the room, seemingly trying to decide what to do. The pounding in Draco’s head was back stronger than it had been before, causing him to rub at his temples, sipping a little of the glass he’d just refilled. 

Draco ran a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh as he saw Hermione take a step away from the table. She continued to stride across the small kitchen until she stopped in front of the stove, releasing a long breath, not too different from the one Draco had released only seconds before. She looked up at the cabinet, pulling it open as she braced her left arm on the counter and she reached up for the pot, which someone had inconveniently moved to the top shelf. Draco tried to suppress the smirk that was forming on his lips as he watched her arse and the small bit of milky skin that became exposed just above it as she reached. He cringed as she knocked a plate into a cup, a reverberating crash echoing throughout the kitchen, the pounding in his head becoming all the more prominent. He gulped down another sip of firewhiskey, rubbing his temples once more, before grumbling, “I thought we’ve been over this, Granger. You’re a witch, you have a wand. I know it’s very difficult to remember, but try to keep up.” 

The clanking stopped a moment later and she turned around, biting her lip, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment as she made eye contact with him for the first time since he almost kissed her a few moments ago. “I left it in my room.” She said quietly. Draco let out a deep sigh, speaking under his breath as he stood, shaking his head, “Merlin save me.” He shuffled across the room to the cabinet, towering over her, his body flush against hers as he reached above their heads to the pot, grabbing it with ease and minimal noise. He brought his arm behind her, placing the pot on the burner as he dropped his eyes to find her staring at him intensely, her breathing the slightest bit laboured. Her right arm was braced on the counter beside her as he stood there, their bodies so close together that they were almost touching. His face was inches from hers, even closer than it had been before, he could feel her breath on his cheek, hot and sweet with each puff. He felt a familiar feeling pooling in his stomach as he contemplated how easy it would be to close the small gap between them, crashing his lips into hers, but seeing as she pulled away only minutes ago, he was hesitant to do so. He allowed himself a glance at those lips, those pink, perfect lips as she licked them and it made him want nothing more than to kiss her right there. 

A small mousy tendril of her hair fell in front of her face, drawing his focus away from her lips. He reached the hand that wasn’t braced on the counter to brush it away, carefully moving it behind her ear. His hand lingered here, tracing the shell of her ear in feather light touches. She shivered, reaching her hand up to cover his, her eyes flicking from his lips back to his molten silver eyes. Her thumb stroked his knuckles in a unique pattern. In a similar way, his thumb stroked her cheekbone gently as he reveled in the softness of her skin despite all these years of hardship, of war. Draco took a half of a step towards her, maneuvering his leg between hers, but not leaning any closer to her face. He knew she could feel his increasing hardness against her thigh and knew he should be embarrassed, but he felt as if he couldn’t move, as if he were completely frozen in place.

To his shock, Hermione leaned into his touch, to both his intruding leg and the soft touch of his hand against her face. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, her lips parted in deep breaths. Her eyes flickered down to his lips once more, this time remaining there for a beat or two before glancing back up to meet his deep stare. There was something akin to desire in her eyes, setting ablaze the golden flecks in her eyes like a wildfire. She leaned up on her tiptoes, moving closer to Draco’s face, so close that she was barely three inches away, so close that their breaths were intermingling, but their lips weren’t touching. He allowed himself one glance at her lips and another at her eyes before they fluttered shut. He felt Hermione’s free hand find its place at the nape of his neck, soothingly twirling the short hairs there in between her fingers. He leaned into her touch, revelling in how good it felt to be so close to her. 

The heat of her body pressed against his was building the sensation in his lower abdomen, making it feel as if his insides were on fire, as if everywhere her body, her hands, touched his were set ablaze, drawing him closer to her. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, his breaths a bit laboured as his chest rose and fell against hers. Just when he wasn’t sure he could take any more of this teasing, he finally felt a brush of her lips against his and he leaned into the velvety feel of them. He burrowed his hand further into her hair, drawing her closer to him as he aimed to fully capture her lips with his. 

As he did so, however, there was a faint noise coming from the doorway that could have been distinguished as a gasp and a calling of Hermione’s name, had he not been so focused on her lips. “Oh!” A dazed voice said rather loudly, pulling Draco out of his trance and away from Hermione. He’d barely been kissing her a few seconds; he needed more. They both turned their heads, not bothering to look at each other as they faced the owner of the voice. In the doorway, stood a doe-eyed, but not genuinely surprised, Luna Lovegood. She was wearing her pyjamas, her one hand on the door jamb as she stood. Hermione’s hand unceremoniously dropped from its position on Draco’s neck. “Oh,” She said again, licking her lip before speaking, “Hello Draco.” She said with a dreamy smile plastered across her face. 

Draco, stunned out of his wits, inclined his head towards the blonde, “Lovegood.” He huffed. In truth, he was surprised he was able to speak at all; he felt as if he were unable to do anything so much as blink. Lovegood turned towards the witch Draco still had pinned against the counter, her face hadn’t the faintest hint of judgement on it. She didn’t even look surprised. “Hermione, I was looking for you.” Draco’s eyes trailed back to Hermione, who was blushing so hard in embarrassment that from her chest to the tips of her ears, she was a deep red. “Oh?” She asked in surprise, as if it were the only thing she was capable of saying at the moment. Lovegood nodded, “I heard the storm still going on and I wanted to see if you were okay,” She paused, turning to Draco, “She really doesn’t like storms; they set her on edge,” She said, then turned back to Hermione, “And you weren’t in your room and all the covers were thrown off your bed, which got me concerned, so I went into the living room, and you weren’t in there and the telly was off, so I figured you might be in here and you were. So are you okay?” She asked, blinking innocently a few times. 

Hermione swallowed hard, seemingly struggling to find words before replying. “Oh, um, yes; I’m fine.” She said, nodding furiously, giving Lovegood an obviously, to him anyway, fake smile. She gave her one back and a nod, “Oh, alright then,” She said, sounding as dazed as she always did. She turned to Draco again, the same genuine smile still on her face, “Are  _ you _ alright, Draco?” She asked. He was almost taken aback by the question, but after a moment’s hesitation he nodded, “Yeah, I’m fine.” He breathed out. She gave him a friendly nod, “I’ll be off then. I’ll be on the porch tending to the tentacula I’ve been growing out there if anyone needs me.” She turned around, her long hair flowing down her back in waves as she walked out of the room, leaving Hermione and Draco alone once more. 

Draco let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and let his head drop to Hermione’s shoulder as he let his leg drop away from his position between hers. “ _ Fuck _ .” He swore under his breath. He took in her scent one more time, feeling his heart drop in his chest before lifting his head and backing up a few inches from her. He pulled on his hair for a few seconds before letting it go, swearing softly under his breath. Hermione was touching her bottom lip, tracing the place where his mouth had been on hers. She swallowed hard again, seemingly in a need to moisten her mouth in order to be able to form words, “I think I should go,” She said breathlessly, the fire that had previously filled her eyes was now gone, extinguished, “Maybe get some sleep.” She brushed back a curl from her face, the same curl, in fact, that Draco had pushed behind her ear a few minutes before. Draco nodded, dragging his hand through his disheveled blond hair once more, clenching his eyes shut for a count of three. 

She moved to take a step towards him, but then seemed to think better of it, retracting back the step and turning towards the doorway. She stopped when she got there, resting her hand, which was no longer shaking, on the door jamb where Lovegood’s had been. Her face was still unsure and looked slightly guilty of what they had succumbed to tonight, but she looked at him all the same, worry etched in her brow. “Goodnight Malfoy.” She said softly, no trace of ire or regret in her voice. He inclined his head towards her before replying in a soft tone, though admittedly not as soft as hers had been, “Goodnight Granger.” She inclined her head back at him, pressing her lips together into a line before turning on her heel and leaving him all to his lonesome with the weight of what had happened, what was about to happen if Lovegood hadn’t interrupted. 

As soon as he heard her bedroom door shut down the hall, he slammed his fist against the countertop, swearing, “ _ Shit. _ ” He shook his head, pacing around the room as he pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eye sockets. He could still taste her on his tongue, on his lips, that beautifully intoxicating taste that he could taste. He could still feel the ghost of her finger brushing his knuckles, of her fingers intertwined with his, her hand in his hair, twining his platinum locks around her fingers. He didn’t allow himself to think about what might have happened if they weren’t interrupted, as much as he’d love to entertain the idea. His head was already pounding too hard, it already felt as if someone were hammering on his skull; if he were to begin down that path, he’d end up vomiting from the pain in his head. He braced both his hands against the counter, his head hanging down as he stood there, eyes still shut. When he reopened his eyes, he saw the pot that Hermione was going to use still sitting there on the burner. He heaved a sigh, taking a slow step forward to grab it and put it back in the cabinet, on a more accessible shelf to her, he might add. He closed the cabinet door quietly, making his way back to the glass that sat empty on the table. He took the last of the bottle, pouring every last drop into the tumbler. He placed the empty bottle back down on the table next to Theo’s, well his, ashtray. 

He let out a slow breath, closing his eyes as he did so, his grip on the glass tightening. When he opened them, he swallowed hard, taking in a deep breath in preparation. As he released it, he lifted his glass into the air, tipping it in a toast, “Dean Thomas; may he find the peace we’re all seeking.” He threw back the last of the whiskey, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing it, shutting his eyes as he felt the burn of it begrudgingly wash away the last taste of Hermione from his mouth. He stood there for a moment, staring straight ahead, thinking of Dean, of Theo, of his mother, of those who had died, those who he’d killed. He allowed himself this moment to grieve, to remember them all, as if he could ever forget. He closed his eyes and his hands fisted at his sides.

When he opened them once more, he thumbed the wand that sat in his pocket as he pulled out his pack of cigarettes, taking one and lighting it with his own wand, remembering the way that Theo had done it, the way that Dean had done it as he did. He brought the fag to his mouth, taking a longer drag than strictly necessary. As he released the smoke from his lungs, he picked up the glass and the bottle, levitating the ashtray at his side as he walked. He gently placed the glass in the sink, so as not to further aggravate his head. He left the bottle on the counter, turning away from the kitchen and walking towards the door, ashtray in tow. He turned around one last time, flicking his wand to extinguish the light from the room, surveying it once more before turning away, a heavy feeling in his chest. He heaved a sigh, taking another drag, rubbing at his temples as he held in the smoke, trying to relieve some of the agony he was feeling. As he left the room, he licked his lips, trying to recover some hint of Hermione on them, relishing in it, as he felt unfortunately familiar sensation of nausea building in his stomach from the unrelenting pounding in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so a lot of tension going on there...
> 
> Next chapter should be up within the week and I mean it this time. Until then, follow me on tumblr at dilemma-ed for updates and previews for this work as well as my other story, Broken, fic recs as well as general posts about Harry Potter.
> 
> Don't hesitate to let me know what you think of this chapter as well as the story as a whole with comments, kudos or on tumblr!!
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> Em:)


	7. Justin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey... So I know I promised it would only be a week and now it's been almost two again and I am truly sorry, but the chapter is here now. Hopefully the length makes up for how late it was, as this chapter is the longest chapter by far, finishing at over 10,000 words. 
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my amazing beta, closer-to-monkey, for helping me out with this story and this monster of a chapter.
> 
> I also just want to add another warning on this chapter, as it's very dark, like much of this story is, so please proceed with caution if that's not really your thing; I get it if it's not:)
> 
> Enjoy!!
> 
> -Em:)

It was only a short three weeks, twenty days, later that Draco found himself once again nursing a raging migraine with a bottle of firewhiskey, hoping with the shreds he had left, that it might subside in the foreseeable future. Not that that was anything new; his head was always hurting. In fact, everything was always hurting, aching; his head, his body, his heart. It never went away, no matter how much he fought in battle, how much he grieved, how much he’d drank. It was as if it came from within his bone marrow, radiating throughout his body.

Currently though, he sat slouched in his chair, perfectly content not to stand up for hours. He’d been on his feet for so long today, walking through the woods in Eastern England for seven hours to get to their destination, as Voldemort’s regime had set up anti-apparition wards set up over roughly a hundred and fifty miles. After the walking finally stopped only granting them a five minute break to go over the plan as they had reached their destination, the cite of their ambush: a prison, if you could even call it that, deep in the thrushes of the Forest of Dean. It was more like one of those Concentration Camps he’d read about in one of the muggle history books he’d found in the library. Just the sight of it made him shutter, bringing about an icy cold set deeper in his bones than the one that settled the time he’d visited his father in Azkaban all those years go. They’d taken one of the most beautiful, peaceful places he’d ever seen and turned it into a macabre, evil hell. He could feel the dark magic coating his skin from even miles away. It loomed around the prison like a thick fog, the kind that you can feel crawling over your body like a leech, invading every part of you until you’re weak in the knees, until you want to do nothing but keel over and vomit just to get rid of the taste, the sensation. 

Just past a clearing of trees, it stood, proud of the hideous thing that it was, of the toxicity it brought to this once immaculate place. There wasn’t much structure to the prison, save the eight-foot tall gates, made of the thickest wrought iron, humming with magic, wards, the four long barrack-like structures, assumingly where they kept the prisoners, the innocents: muggles, muggle-borns and sympathizers, and the small building that looked almost regal in comparison to everything else in the camp: the Warden’s office. In the courtyard, there were gallows, with hanged bodies, hanged innocents in them, their bodies decaying, blow-flies surrounding them, buzzing faintly. 

They had some prisoners in cages, ten of them, too small to be comfortable. They were writhing in pain, some of them crying, no, sobbing, as if the effects of the cruciatus and those worse, still wracked their bodies. At least seven were lying in their own bodily fluids, much like those prisoners in the cellar of the place that was once his home, as if they’d been there for days, or as if the torture had been so horrible, so intrinsically vile, that their bodies had just given up, releasing all excretions when they could no longer control such simple functions. He’d guessed it was the latter rather than the former, judging by the conditions that they were in. He swallowed back bile with a swig of whiskey as he remembered the infected gashes, yellow with puss, some reeking of rot, decay, some were even past the point of saving the limb, that is, if they even survived the rescue trip.

There were guards standing in front of the cages, some taunting the poor miserable souls, fated to this horrible life of torture, of agony, while others stood stone-faced, facing away from the cages as they watched on. It made him sick, to see these people, these  _ human-beings _ , being treated in such a way, as if they were nothing less than objects, than game to be hunted, toyed with before devoured entirely by the darkness that held them. And they were innocent; all of them. The muggles, helpless against the magic of witches and wizards, especially the ones that held them captive there, who had no mercy for those such as themselves: victims of circumstance. Most of them hadn’t a clue why they were being punished for simply existing, not having a magical relative or child within their family, not even knowing that the Wizarding World existed until they had been taken away from their beds in the night and brought to this place.

Marcus Belby had lost the contents of his stomach upon arriving at the gates, realizing that those things that had seemed simply like bulbs on the gates from far away, were really human heads on the spikes, some placed there recently, the decay process barely even beginning, while others were two steps away from becoming nothing but bone. The approaching summer’s heat that clung to their skin had done nothing but amplify the wretched scent of rotting, burning flesh. Belby wasn’t the only one who’d retched upon smell, upon the sight of these ill-fated people, as four others had vomited as well: Lavender Brown, Daphne Greengrass (Draco’s fellow Slytherin), Alicia Spinnet, and Anthony Goldstein. The smell barely registered in comparison to the horrid stench of the camp, of the bodies, the people. Draco would be lying if he said that the sight, along with the sour smell that made his nose twitch, didn’t force him to swallow back the urge to purge himself of his breakfast.

Daphne was relatively new to the house, she kept her distance from most people, keeping quiet around everyone, but spoke to Draco on occasion, seemingly finding familiarity in him. She seemed to think that they would judge her based on the person that her father was, especially after what he had done to her little sister Astoria. She’d fallen in love with muggle-born, not one that Draco knew by name, but a muggle-born nonetheless. She’d became a spy, secretly feeding him information on Death Eater movements until her father, a notoriously cruel man amongst the Death Eaters, found out. He’d stripped her of her wealth, her status, the clothes on her back, even the hair on her head before shackling her to a pole in a Death Eater compound, the words ‘Mudblood Whore’ etched into the skin of her stomach with a cursed blade as she was left to be tortured by those around, spitting on her, casting curses until her body finally gave out. They’d sent her body to Order Headquarters, along with the head and genitals of her lover, as a message, as a threat. It still haunted Daphne; she never so much as mentioned her sister and if anyone else did, her eyes would glaze over, as if she could do nothing other than sit there in a trance-like state, seeing her sister’s mutilated body over and over. 

If he was being honest, he didn’t mind her presence. He was never particularly close with Daphne, as she’d been a quieter one amongst the Slytherin brood during their time at Hogwarts. She never taunted the younger students or the Gryffindors alongside him and Pansy, she was always a bystander, keeping to herself most of the time. She’d been friendly with Theo, well more than friendly. In fact, they went out for a time before the War began for over a year. He’d broken it off with her the night he was to receive the Mark, the night after Draco had attempted murder on Dumbledore. He didn’t want her to get hurt because of him, to be dragged into the war further than she had to be. Of course, now she was just as entrenched in it as the rest of them. He’d known that they’d kept in touch, only the occasional allowed correspondence, until his death. He knew, though he rarely spoke of her, his voice hoarse when he did, a vacant expression in his eyes, that Theo loved her until the day he died and though she hadn’t mentioned him, he knew that she was still in love with him, even after all of these years. When he’d accidentally dropped Theo’s wand from his pocket the week before, her breath had caught in her throat before promptly excusing herself from the room to lock herself in the bathroom for over forty minutes, the water running in order to cover up the sound of her heaving sobs.

Through intel Kingsley had received earlier in the week from a turncoat within the Death Eater ranks, it had been discovered that at exactly 3:47pm, the wards on the prison camp flickered and stayed down for a good sixteen minutes. It was a flaw within their so called ‘perfect system’. From what they were told, it seemed like very few guards and the Warden, his uncle’s brother Rabastan Lestrange, knew about the flicker and none of the prisoners seemed to notice that the thrum of magic disappeared from the thick air around the gates. Regardless, it allotted them the perfect opportunity to stage an ambush, a rescue mission.

They hid under disillusionment charms as they entered the prison, not wasting a single second as soon as the wards were down. They split into groups, stunning, petrifying and killing as many of the guards they could take by surprise before the charms wore off, revealing their positions to the enemy. They split up amongst themselves as designated by Aberforth only minutes before. Draco, along with Justin Finch-Fletchley, Daphne, Cormac McLaggen, and Hermione, were assigned to focus on those in the cages, those poor souls who would be lucky if they didn’t die of dysentery or blood loss before they got them out. As they worked, standing in blood, piss, shit, infection, and vomit, the smell so damn vile that Cormac was dry-heaving as he was trying to lift a prisoner, a muggle-born girl (distinguished by special manacles to restrict magic and the worn stitched label across the breast of her horribly torn prison tunic, stating ‘Mudblood’), who was covered in so much blood, so much fluid, that it clung to her like the dark magic to their bodies, caked from her hair to underneath her ragged fingernails. She was screaming, yelling for Cormac to put her down, but he refused. She seemed to be so broken as to think that he was there to harm her, to torture her, rape her, or worse. As much of a douchebag as he was, Cormac wasn’t about to hurt her, though he did use a scouring charm on himself as soon as he handed her off. It was all Draco could do not to roll his eyes at the wanker.

There was no sign of Rabastan, none at all, as Draco lifted a man, roughly forty, who was practically in a vegetative state, fighting off the remaining guards with precision as he did so. They were putting up a fight, a strong one, seemingly appearing out of nowhere as the Order members attempted to rush the prisoners to safety. Those helping the prisoners in the barracks kept them in their bound shackles, shuffling them out in the single file line that their chains forced them to be in, fighting off as many Death Eaters as they could. He fought off the guards approaching and hoisted up the man from the cage, slinging his shoulder around the back of his neck as he did. He ran the man to the edge of the gate, where he passed the man off to Daphne, who passed him off the Goldstein, just as they’d done with the other two he’d helped before turning to another cage. 

Just as he and Hermione were about to meet at the next cage, the last cage, they heard Justin let out a hollow sob. Hermione had been looking paranoid since they’d arrived, looking frantically around at those prisoners the others were trying to free from the barracks. He could see the fear in her eyes, the sheer terror and panic in them as her eyes roamed the camp, looking for any sign of the two people she loved more dearly than anyone else, the people who had no memory of her, no memory of magic. 

Both their heads snapped to Justin, who had his hand clapped over his mouth, his whole body wracked with sobs as he crouched down in front of the cage, his knees giving out from underneath him, as he extended his shaking hand out to run his fingers through the dirty hair of the frail woman within, whom was covered in blood and looked as if she’d been starved for weeks, perhaps longer, given only what she’d needed to survive. He exchanged looks with Hermione as Justin let out one single breathless word, his eyes brimming with tears, “ _ Mom… _ ” 

Hermione let go of the bar on the cage she’d been gripping tightly with one hand, her breathing becoming more and more shallow by the second. Her eyes flitted around the camp, person to person, looking, searching for the two faces she prayed weren’t there. “Granger.” He said softly, but firmly, trying to draw her attention back to him before she had a full-blown panic attack. She’d gone as pale as a sheet of parchment, not a speck of color left in those cheeks. She ignored him as if she’d not even heard him at all, her eyes still looking in every which direction as her grip on her wand tightened. He grabbed her hand, the one that hung limp at her side and repeated her name, this time more commanding, “ _ Hermione. _ ” Her head snapped towards his, her mouth agape, her eyes wide with panic, brimming with tears. “Hermione, I need you to look at me.” He stated, gripping her hand tight with one hand and her shoulder with the other, her soft skin cool to the touch with sweat underneath his calloused fingertips. She was still refusing to meet his eyes, looking everywhere and anywhere else. “ _ Now. _ ” He ordered, her eyes immediately snapping to his at his cold tone. 

She was breathing hard and fast, uneven as her panic-stricken eyes searched his silver ones. “I need you to listen to me; I need you to hear what I’m saying.” He said. She nodded, only slightly, but she did still. He spoke clearly, his eyes softened as he did, never leaving her chestnut colored ones. “ _ They’re not here. _ ” He stated, his eyebrows raised. He swallowed hard. “They’re not here,” He repeated shaking his head. “They’re safe; far, far away from this place because of what you did for them. They’re safe. They’re wherever the bloody fuck you sent them. They’re not here, so stop looking. We  _ have _ to get this man and go.” Without looking or even breaking eye contact, he shot a curse to their left, knocking down a Death Eater who had spotted them. Hermione nodded slowly, “Breathe Hermione; breathe with me.” He said, raising his eyebrows and nodding as she did. After a few breaths, neither of them breaking eye contact, her breathing began to return to a normal rate, though her eyes still were stricken with paranoia. He squeezed her hand, running a thumb over her knuckles. She bit her lip, looking down at their conjoined hands, studying them for no longer than a second, a furrow in her brow. She squeezed back, returning his gesture before letting go, turning back to the cage. 

“I’m okay; I’m okay.” She repeated, nodding her head, letting out a cleansing breath as she unlocked the cage, undoing the complicated wards on them. “I have this one.” She stated plainly and he stood for a moment, staring at her sudden concentration before snapping himself back into reality, turning to defend the others who were helping and those who were helpless to the Death Eaters’ attack. He’d finally caught sight of Rabastan. His uncle’s brother was across the field, raging and annihilating those in his way and those who weren’t. There were prisoners dead on the ground, at least forty-five, but he tried not to focus on them, forced himself into tunnel vision to prevent himself from vomiting at the sight; the smell was bad enough without having to look. Between those dead on the ground, and the horrific condition of those who were being ushered out, the dark purple and yellow bruises that covered many of them being the least of their problems.

It was when they started to retreat when it happened. Justin had finally gathered enough of his wits to hold his mother up, running as fast as he could to get out of there, wand in one hand, the other slung around her as he whispered placating words in her ear. Draco wasn’t far behind, he was helping Hermione carry a man who was writhing due to excessive exposure to the cruciatus curse. He was struggling against them, making it difficult for her to do it on her own. It was Graham Montague who did it, a wicked smile on his face, as if he knew exactly what he was ripping away, what he was destroying. He shot a curse to Justin’s back, hitting him right between his shoulder blades, killing him instantly as he fell to the ground with a thud. 

The eyes that had been so horrified, so scared, but so hopeful for his mother a moment ago had gone dull, completely and utterly blank, all of the light leaving them like an extinguished candle. His mother’s scream cut through every sound, every person, at the prison camp, blood-curdling and heart-wrenching, the unique and horrible sound of a mother losing her only child, the one person who had kept her going, the reason she hadn’t yet given up. Draco immediately ran to her, holding her back as she struggled to grab at Justin’s body. She screamed and screamed and screamed, not relenting until he was forced to stun her. He lifted her fragile form into his arms, holding her to his chest as the tears already formed on her face stained his tee-shirt. He released a shaky breath, barely hesitating before grabbing Justin’s corpse along with him, slinging him over his shoulder as he ran, shooting curses left and right until he passed the wards.

He stopped for only a moment once he was sure he was safe before activating his portkey, gripping both the weeping mother and the lifeless son as he felt the pull at his navel, bringing him back to the safe house. He felt a burning sensation form at his eyes once the house came back into view. He needed help before he broke down, before he puked until he couldn’t puke anymore. “LOVEGOOD!” He shouted, his voice, commanding, but still sounded as desperate and shaky as he felt. He was covered in blood, shit, mud and vomit, but the only thing that bothered him was the blood, the thick, sticky, red substance coated his skin and his clothes, slick in his fingers as he clutched Justin’s mother to him as she bled in his arms, still unconscious. Lovegood immediately appeared from the front porch, her eyes going wide as she hesitated for a moment on the steps, “Is he–?” Draco cut her off before she could finish, “Yes.” She sucked in a breath, nodding as he placed Justin on the ground before carrying his mother inside to be healed. She followed him close behind, her hands balled into fists. 

Draco hadn’t buried Justin tonight with the others, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He knew he couldn’t handle it, especially not with his mother there, heavily sedated, but still present, still weeping. He’d watched from inside as he sat on the loveseat in the living room, his knees up to his chest, his eyes blurred with tears. He sat there for over an hour afterward, counting his breaths, counting the floorboards, counting anything that he could find to distract him. Each time he looked at the poor muggle woman, lucky to be alive due to the severity of some of her injuries, he saw the horrified, wide look in her eyes as Justin fell to the ground, the sound of his body hitting the dirt echoing through the camp with a resounding thump. Her screams, her cries, her protests as he ripped her away from the body of her son. His stomach never settled, churning over and over again as forced his eyes to stay open.

He was exhausted, his eyes were stinging in an effort to stay open. He would fight it as long as he could, as he knew that the horrors he’d seen tonight would be burned into his eyelids once he closed them. He couldn’t handle the nightmares; he just couldn’t. It was well past three o’clock in the morning, the house just barely settled, some people still stirring around, in the living room watching telly or in the library, reading books until their eyes could take no more, leaving them with nothing else to distract them from the sleep that awaited. His hand was trembling as he reached for the glass that sat in front of him on the worn table of the kitchen. He gripped the glass so tightly that his knuckles were bone-white in order to hide the shaking. He threw back the entire glass, hoping to drown out the screams of the innocent, the sound of last breaths being taken, the feeling of cradling Justin’s mother to his chest with one arm as he carried Justin’s lifeless body in the other. He had to do this; for Justin, for his mother, for all the other poor souls in that camp who died, the ones who hadn’t escaped today and would be punished severely in place of the ones who had.

He was just pouring another glass when he’d heard the familiar sound of Hermione clearing her throat, making herself known so as not to startle him. He turned around, feeling unable to speak. He’d felt that way since he got back. He inclined his head towards her as he sipped his firewhiskey. Her eyes looked as bloodshot as his felt, the bags under even darker than usual due to the taxing length of the mission and stress it brought her, brought them all. When they’d gotten back, she was pretty shaken up, the paranoia, the fear that her parents could be in such a place, consuming her. Her hair was sopping wet from the long shower she’d taken. He’d never understand why she didn’t charm that mane of hers dry instead of dripping all over the house. He’d taken one too, a scalding hot, burning, lengthy shower, scrubbing any remnants of that place, of what had happened there, from every inch of his skin until it hurt. 

She was wearing a quidditch tee-shirt from the World Cup in 1994; the Irish. If he were in a better mood, he would have laughed at the irony of Gryffindor’s Golden Girl wearing his house colors, but instead he tipped his glass towards her. “Want one?” He brought himself to ask. She seemed to be contemplating her answer, her eyes dashing from his tumbler to the bottle sitting just to his left with a sort of longing. She finally shook her head, “No, not tonight.” She said, moving from the doorway, making her way slowly, as if she couldn’t move any quicker, to the stove, where she grabbed the pot with ease, as this time it was on the bottom shelf. She put the pot on the stove, lighting the burner before leaning onto her right foot as she reached for the pantry to get the sugar and the muggle refrigerator, enchanted by Lovegood to keep its individual contents at the perfect temperature, to grab the milk, her fingers curling tightly around the glass bottle. 

After having made her drink, the sweet aroma that reminded him so much of her swirling around the room, pushing out any remnants of the rotting bodies and the excretions; the stench of the camp, she pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, placing her mug down rather loudly. He cringed at the noise, but knew that he shouldn’t expect any different from her at this point. As she slurped, yes, slurped, at the sugar milk in her mug, they sat in silence, neither speaking, the air heavy with the memory of what had happened the last time they were alone in that room. 

The tension between them… It was killing him, killing them. It was clawing at Draco’s insides with a goblin-forged blades, tearing him up every time she entered the room and looked at him. They hadn’t been alone for more than a few minutes since Lovegood interrupted them. It drove him insane. The past three weeks since Lovegood had caught them had been torture. They were even worse than the two months they spent practically avoiding each other. Now it wasn’t just some drunken mistake they were embarrassed about, wasn’t just in the heat of the moment after Weasley had been killed. They couldn’t blame it on the situation. Their attraction, their desire, for each other was undeniable. He craved her from the moment he’d gotten a taste and hadn’t been able to push away the thought of having her, of tasting her again since. Not even by drinking himself into a stupor or any of his usual shags. None of them compared to her. Not in smell, taste, demeanor, intelligence. She had gotten under his skin, crawling like a bug underneath it, pestering him. He was ready to peel his skin off just to get some relief. 

She finally broke the silence that they were stewing in, meeting his eye for the first time since that night, save the occasional flicker, and earlier in the prison. She’d made a habit of not meeting his eye when she spoke to him professionally, looking anywhere but his hypnotic silver orbs. They were now locked on each other, silver on brown; gold. He took in every detail, every fleck of gold, flash of amber within them. He didn’t want to look away, want it to end. “Thank you.” She said simply, but quietly, breaking the eye contact he was clinging to as she looked down to study whatever it was that was in her mug that she deemed more interesting. She was fidgeting, her fingers twirling around the mug’s handle nervously as her brow crinkled. 

He continued to gaze at her intensely, his brow furrowed as his finger traced the rim of his glass in slow circles. “You know, for, um, helping me out today.” She said, her voice just a tone louder than a whisper. “I, um, was going into shock; I could feel it. Your voice…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “If you didn’t do what you did…” She shook her head again, willing the thought away from her brain before heaving a sigh. She looked back up to meet his eyes, reaching her hand hesitantly across the table to grasp his. Her hand was warm and slightly sweaty from the combination of her mug as well as the outside temperature, which had cooled slightly, but was still warmer than it should be for this time of year. He glanced towards them, flicking there for less than a second before trailing his gaze back to her glowing eyes, not wanting to miss a single flicker of expression within them. Her chestnut opals seemed so sad, so desperate for this war to end, but no longer stricken with fear or paranoia. His heart called out to her, the pull unrelenting. He wanted nothing more than to take her hand, to hold her in his arms, to close the gap between them and kiss her, to finish what they’d started.

“Just,” She shrugged, “Thank you, Malfoy.” He pressed his lips into a small smile, “It was nothing, Granger.” He said softly, shaking his head. Merlin knew he’d felt the same way at times, as if his airway was closing in on him, as if his brain, his eyes, his whole body was only coursing with one blinding thought. He turned his hand over in hers, running a finger over her knuckle, just as he had only hours ago, when she was on the verge of a devastatingly timed panic attack. He threw back another glass of firewhiskey, refilling it immediately. She gripped his hand tighter, her other hand leaving her mug to cup his chin as he tried to look back down at the table. “No it wasn’t.” She said, her eyes unwavering as they examined his. “It wasn’t nothing, Malfoy… Draco…” His breath caught in his throat at the sound of his first name on her lips, drawing him closer to her. “I would have blown the mission or gotten myself killed if you didn’t do what you did.” Draco felt frozen, as if he couldn’t so much as speak, or even breathe. Her fingers felt so warm, so perfect, as if their touch were melting into his skin, warming the deepest, coldest parts inside him. He said nothing, did nothing other than stare at her, blinking. She stared right back at him, her face so close to his, reminding him of the night three weeks ago. She went silent again, having said her piece, but not moving even an inch away, keeping her hand on his face. 

His eyes flickered down to her lips, stealing a glance of their plump perfection. Her hand slid from his chin to his jawline, her fingernail scraping against the stubble he’d failed to shave that night. “Draco…” She said, her voice so reminiscent of that first night they’d kissed; the night that Weasley was killed. His eyes traced over the seemingly strategic sprinkling of freckles across her nose, the apple of her cheeks. They were so light that you could barely see them from a distance. “Hmm?” He answered, unable to form coherent words. All of his concentration was going into not closing the gap between them, to keeping the distance, albeit the small one, between them. “Thank you.” She said, her voice a whisper of hot breath against his cheek. 

Before he could open his mouth to answer her, she did what he hadn’t dared to do. She kissed him. Gently. Slowly. Passionately. Her lips moved against his in a way that made him yearn, made him lean in, perfectly content to continue the kiss exactly the way she had began it. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t hasty, it wasn’t sloppy. Every movement, every lick, nip, bite was strategic, deliberate. Their first kiss and the kisses that followed were desperate assaults, like a raging wildfire, but this one… it was slow-burning and all-consuming, as each second passed on, he felt the fire burning in his core fill him in a way he didn’t know possible. The moment his lips touched hers, he forgot everything else that had been clouding his brain. He succumbed to her, slipping his tongue into her mouth as she nipped his lip, begging, pleading for entrance.

She tasted sweetly, wonderfully sweet as it combatted the bitterness of the firewhiskey. It made him want to groan in satisfaction. It was so perfectly, beautifully her. In a way that no other taste could ever be. His tongue ran the length of hers, eliciting a delicious moan from Hermione, she trailed her hand further up his jaw to tangle in his hair, still messy after being towel dried and pulled on for twenty minutes afterward in attempt to prevent a mental breakdown. Draco let go of the tight grip he had been keeping on his glass and brought his hand to the back of her neck, burying his fingers in her soft curls, running his fingers through them, pulling her closer to him. He needed her closer. He needed every inch of his body, every patch of skin to feel her, to know what it feels like to be touched by her. 

Her fingers danced around the nape of his neck still, each movement sending a shudder down his spine, only making him grip onto her tighter. He released her hand, detaching her fingers from his, despite her attempt at keeping them intertwined, before reaching to her waist, pulling her closer, closer, closer. Draco’s fingers dug into her hip, guiding her into his lap, where his excitement was already making itself known to her. He felt her smirk against his lips, grinding herself into him in desperation, in need. To his disappointment, Hermione ripped her lips, now swollen, from his, robbing him of her intoxicating taste. She looked at him with wide eyes only for a moment, those vibrant brown opals filled with something akin to desire before her mouth found its place on his neck, latching on as his breath caught, his fingers digging into her side even further, hard enough to leave bruises. It gave Draco a sick sense of satisfaction knowing that tomorrow there would be a visible reminder of him on her skin.

Her mouth felt like a trail of flames moving across his neck with each ghost of teasing touch. Draco rolled his hips against Hermione, groaning as he pulled her face back, smashing his lips against hers, a new ferocity in their kiss as he nipped at her bottom lip. She responded immediately and just as fervently, wrapping both her arms around his neck so that their bodies were hard-pressed together, the heat radiating off of them. He needed her; his increasing hardness was becoming harder and harder to ignore. He lifted her by her hips as she wrapped her legs around his waist tightly, moaning into her mouth as he felt her heat press against him once again. She dug her heels into his back as he released his grip on her hair, maneuvering his hands around the back of her thighs. He broke his lips away from hers, bringing his lips to her ear as he huskily whispered, “Hold on tight.” Hermione nodded, her heels digging in further, but not enough for him to really even notice. She buried her face into his neck, trailing kisses up him until she ghosted the shell of his ear, making him shiver. She laughed, a rare and beautiful sound that he scarcely heard, finding his lips once more as he hoisted them into a standing position. 

Hermione only clung to Draco tighter as he walked them blindly across the kitchen until her arse hit the counter. She let out a wince of pain, but shook her head as his eyes flashed with concern. She kissed him hard and fast, reassuring him as Draco put her down there, but kept his grip on her thighs, wedging himself in between them. He attached himself to her neck, biting, sucking, nipping, leaving deep, purple love-bites everywhere he touched with his lips. She angled her neck back, allowing him better access to the supple skin there. As he reached a sensitive spot behind her ear, Hermione let out a high pitched noise, causing her to clap her hand over her mouth in embarrassment. Draco only laughed, a low, teasing laugh, as he ghosted the shell of her ear, making her shiver. She placed her hand on his chest, the other one still over her mouth. He was so close that he could practically hear her heart beating. She gained a look in her eye that made him scared to move for a moment, as if she only now realized what was happening, where this was leading.

She dropped her legs from around his waist, leaving him empty, yearning for her touch, for the feel of her against him. Her palm was pressed firmly against his chest still, neither pushing him away nor pulling him towards her. For a moment he didn’t move, nothing more than a breath. Then he spoke. He spoke in a low voice, the only one that he could muster with the amount of arousal pumping through him. “Hermione,” He said, his eyes trying to contain the disappointment, the frustration bubbling up within him. “Hermione,” He repeated, “If you don’t…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he tried to find the words, “If you don’t want this, want me…” He heaved a sigh, his eyes meeting hers, an indiscernible expression written across them. “Just tell me. Please. I’ll–” He broke off moving a hair's breadth away, breaking their eye contact only for a moment. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. I promise. I’d–I’d understand if you didn’t want this. I wouldn’t blame you.” He said shaking his head. “I would never blame you for that. I just–” He stated, finally finding his words. “I just don’t know if I can keep playing this game.” Even as he stumbled and finished his speech, Hermione’s chest was still heaving, struggling to catch her breath as they stood in a heavy silence.

She shook her head and said nothing, simply staring at him with an unreadable expression as she contemplated his statement. His heart was in his throat, pounding so hard that he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He didn’t know what he would do if she rejected him. He supposed he would walk out of the kitchen, whiskey in hand, his tail between his legs, as he tried to maintain the picture of confidence that he was trying–and failing–to be right now. He watched as Hermione’s eyes trailed down from his silver orbs, lingering on his lips for a moment before crashing hers into them in a bruising, hungry kiss, unlike the ones they’d shared weeks and even moments before, but yet, just as desperate. There was a new hunger in her stature, in the way her fingers gripped at his face, rubbing against his stubble as her other hand pulled him towards her by his shirt, catching him so off guard that he almost tripped. 

She ripped her lips from his, resting her forehead against his. His eyes were closed, closed so tightly that he was scared to open them, as if he’d open them and she’d be gone. His heart was still pounding as she spoke, the sound so loud in his ears that he barely registered the melodic tone of her voice, soft and beautiful. “Open your eyes, Draco.” She said. He could feel her breath against his cheek each time she released a warm puff. As if on command, before he could allow himself to really think about it, to contemplate it, he opened his eyes. She was staring at him, her brown eyes sparkling as they searched his grey ones. She didn’t blink once as she spoke, gazing at him with want, with need as she angled her lips towards his ear, “I want this, Draco; I want you.” She whispered, the words felt warm on his skin, like a delicious melody waiting to be played. 

He shuddered again, chills coursing down his spine at the words. There was such desire in them, such lust. They affected him more than any girl he’d ever slept with. He wondered for a while if the words had actually come from Hermione Granger, the girl he’d always thought to be prude. He couldn’t have been anymore wrong; she was anything but. As proven by her next move: she grabbed at the frayed tie on his pajama pants, hooking her fingers under the hem. Her cold fingers felt as if they left a lasting imprint on him. Their lips locked on one another again and he felt as if he would be content to do this forever. Just as his hand slid under her shirt and up her stomach, he moved back to her neck, taking his time memorizing every inch of skin there. “Malfoy,” She gasped, licking her, now swollen lip. He nipped at the same spot again, eliciting another moan from her before she cleared her throat, placing a guiding finger on his jaw. “Erm, Draco?” She asked, her eyebrows furrowed as she fought the rather embarrassing sound that was threatening to come out.

Draco left her neck with a long lick across a rather sensitive patch of skin. He simply quirked his eyebrow at her, a smirk playing at his lips, “Hmm?” She glanced away from his eyes before looking back into them nervously. “If we’re going to do this… us…” She paused and heaved a sigh. Draco bit the inside of his lip, feeling irritation creeping in on him. “Spit it out, Granger. I don’t have all day.” He rolled his eyes, knowing full well that he did indeed have the whole day to waste standing there in front of her. “Idontjustwanttobeanothershag.” She said quickly, so quickly that he didn’t catch what she said, shaking her head at her stupidity. “What?” He asked, letting out a snort.

Her finger moved from his jaw to his bottom lip, the soft pad like velvet against his skin there. She focused all of her energy into staring at that lip, concentrating on it as she answered, making sure not to meet his eye, as if he would think she were ridiculous. She swallowed hard, finally speaking, “I’m not just here for you to use, to shag and throw away, like the others. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the revolving door of women that come and go like minutes in a day. Your room is right down the hall from mine. I don’t want to be one of them.” She said, finally raising her eyes to meet his, which softened from a cool steel as she spoke. He was almost sure that he knew what she was asking of him, but he needed her to say it out loud. “What are you saying?” He urged her, swallowing back his heartbeat. She released another sigh, her warm breath on his neck, causing him to suppress the shivers from coursing through his body. 

“Draco, I don’t want this to be a one night stand. I don’t just want to be another one of your conquests. I want you, all of you.” She pushed a curl behind her ear, but it immediately sprung back out in front of her face. “If we’re going to do this, I want to be all in.” Draco stood there, looking at her dumbfounded for a moment. He shook his head, not quite understanding how she could possibly think that he would do that to her. “Do you really think so lowly of me?” He asked, his voice unwavering, but he could feel the changed look on his face as a furrow took up residence. She shook her head immediately, moving her other hand to cup his cheek, “No, no! Of course not! I just…” She trailed off, looking past him before looking back at him. “I just wanted to, um, clarify.” He felt a smile creep onto his face as he pressed his forehead against hers, keeping a chuckle bubbled within him, lest she think he was mocking her. He looked her dead in the eyes as he spoke, his eyes burning with desire. “I’m all in, Granger.” He breathed out, his voice oozing with the need that consumed him as he hovered only a few mere centimeters from her lips, testing his patience, his self-control, well, what little of it that he had left. 

A grin spread across Hermione’s lips at his words, a beautiful grin, a light and bright one, one that was so rare nowadays. Before Draco was wholly ready to stop gazing at that smile, Hermione closed her miniscule gap between them, everywhere their skin was touching felt as if they were trapped in a fire they could no longer control, but he didn’t care. He threw himself into it, gladly succumbing to the flames that had been kindling secretly for weeks, months now. Hermione wasted no time, tearing Draco’s shirt over his head, running her cool hands down his abdomen, muscles rippling underneath her fingertips. Her eyes flashed to the long scar that ran from his sternum down to his navel, examining it with soft eyes. “Beautiful.” She breathed, her cheeks flush as her eyes wandered his body, exploring hungrily. He reached into his pocket, retrieving his wand and flicking it towards the doorway wordlessly, casting locking and silencing charms on the room. As he tossed his wand down on the counter with a crash, Hermione’s fingers latched onto the back of his neck, pulling him back down to her, capturing his lips with hers in a bruising kiss; one he knew he’d feel tomorrow.

Draco chuckled as he broke the kiss to take Hermione’s shirt over her head, just now remembering that it was both green  _ and  _ a quidditch shirt. He threw the shirt somewhere behind him as she went to cover up the baby pink bra she was wearing that honestly looked as if it’d seen better days. He grabbed her hands, placing them onto his strong shoulders, placing hot, featherlight kisses to her jawline. 

She leaned towards him, shifting with the need to be closer, a need that was the only thought that plagued his brain at the moment. Her left hand drifted, her fingertips tickling him, to the nape of his neck, while the other slid down his body in an agonizingly slow pace, feeling every dip, ripple, dimple, freckle, scar that ran along the path to his waistband. 

Her fingernails grazed his skin as her thumbs hooked around his pants. As he bit down on her bottom lip, earning him a gasp, he felt her pull his pyjama pants and boxers over his hips, his cock springing up against her creamy thigh. He moaned into her mouth at the contact, pulling harder on her lip. He stepped out of his clothes, kicking them away as quickly as he possibly could, his erection becoming increasingly impossible to ignore. He felt like if he didn’t have her soon, he might spontaneously combust. She wrapped her hand around him, pumping the length once, causing him to buck towards her involuntarily. 

Her hand slid back up his body as he ran his fingers down her spine, feeling every inch, every centimeter accessible to him. He pressed up against her, aching for some sort of friction, some sort of release, as she wrapped her legs around his waist, digging her heels into the small of his back, as they had been earlier. It made him groan her name into her mouth, his eyes closed shut tighter than they’d ever been before. It felt so natural to hold her to him, to be able to touch her like this and her him. It felt as if this was what they should have been doing all their lives.

She broke the kiss, much to Draco’s dismay, before shifting her weight against him so that she could shimmy out of her shorts. A wolfish grin took up residence on his face as he nibbled on her ear lobe. Becoming impatient at the pace at which she was going, Draco yanked them off of her, discarding them along with their other garments. She giggled, the sweet sound echoing in his ear, the soft, flushed skin of her cheek scratching against his stubble. “Mmmm.” She purred into his ear, relishing in the feeling of skin against skin, her heat warm and wet against him, making his cock twitch in anticipation. Draco returned the sentiment as best as he could, but felt unable to do anything but touch her, every velvety inch. He brought his free hand down between her legs, delicately tracing circles on the inside of her thighs, slowly, so slowly, until his hand reached her core, which was so impossibly ready for him already. She wiggled against his fingers, trying to force him to touch her bundle of nerves, which he was circling as slowly as he did her thighs, perhaps even slower. It was killing her, he could tell. Her eyes had a crazed look and she looked breathless, so utterly breathless as she pressed her flushed face into his neck, frustratingly moaning his name in a plea. He obliged, running his thumb so, so carefully over the bundle, once, twice, three times. Each time brought her to involuntarily buck towards his hand, towards  _ him _ . 

He couldn’t wait any longer; he already felt as if he’d explode the moment he entered her, if not sooner. The anticipation of having her was killing him, tearing him apart. He tore his hand away from her, needing to feel her, to be  _ inside  _ of her. Draco tightened his grip on the underside of her thigh, nails digging in as he guided his cock to her entrance. She was wet, so, so, wet that he was sure he wasn’t going to last. He was sure that if she were to tease him, he’d lose it in seconds. Her body was flush against his, her nipples erect, rubbing against his chest through the worn material of her bra. 

Hermione dug her heels into the small of his back harder than it already was, trying to pull her close, begging him to enter her. She let out a feral groan, her sharp fingernails pressing into the skin of his neck hard enough to draw blood. He let out a low chuckle into her ear, “Eager are we?” He said, licking the shell of her ear with surprising precision considering the fact that he could feel his self-control slipping. She shook him off, seemingly fighting off a shiver as she looked him dead in the eye, her lips ghosting over his as she spoke, a furrow in her brow, “I’ve waited long enough, Draco.” She said, trying to sound annoyed, but only coming out exasperated, making him laugh, though he succumbed to her wishes, sheathing himself into her wet heat with a thrust. 

As he buried himself to the hilt, he felt as if he were on fire, as if every sense in him was heightened. He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, taking in that intoxicating scent as he released a groan into her hair, relishing in the feel of her around him, walls clenching so perfectly. He pulled himself out almost all the way before plunging back into her, eliciting a gasp from Hermione, her head lolling to the side as he moved to mark her neck in that sensitive spot.  Hermione was meeting each of his thrusts with her own, completing each other. He was so perfectly content in that moment, whole in a way that he’d never known he could be. It was… ethereal. 

He felt the familiar tightening approaching and hoped that he could hold out long enough for Hermione to meet her release first. He broke from her neck with one last kiss behind her ear, trailing his way to look into those endlessly complicated eyes, raging with desire, with lust and unresolved tension. The gold flecks seemed more prominent than ever, glowing in contrast to her dilated pupils. He was sure his eyes reflected much of the same, the silver turning molten. She was panting, her eyelids hooded as she changed the position of one of her hands, raking her fingers down his back in a feral way that was sure to sting later, but he couldn’t care less. He groaned at the feeling, wanting more, needing more. She clawed at him, moaning his name like a prayer over and over in a way that in itself could send him over the edge. 

His thrusts were becoming sloppier as he felt the feeling in his core grow and begin to spread in his body, building more and more with each one. He was going to lose control; he could feel it. He placed a wet, bruising kiss on Hermione’s lips as felt her walls begin to flutter around him enticingly. She let out a gasp into his mouth that travelled into his very core, coating his bones. Just when he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to hold on any longer, Hermione broke their kiss, tearing her lips from his, throwing her head back in ecstasy, a low guttural moan ripping from her as her walls clenched around him as she met her release. He only had a moment, less than a moment actually, to capture her like this: head thrown back in pleasure, his name on her lips as she bit down on her impossibly swollen bottom one, her hair messier, but more beautiful than he’d ever seen it, her face flushed pink in exasperation, her chest heaving as she struggled to find breath, her breasts, so full and delectable, spilling over the cups of her bra. She was breathtaking. 

As if in response, Draco’s release ripped through him with one last thrust into her, so powerful that he was seeing spots, a more animalistic moan releasing from him than he’d ever heard himself make, almost feral. The arm he had braced against the counter trembled as he tried to hold his weight as the wave of pleasure, of something akin to contentment coursed through him. He tightened his grip on her thigh, keeping himself buried in her as they rode out their pleasure. Hermione’s nails were rooted in his back as she clutched him to her. Unable to keep his head up, Draco’s head fell to her shoulder, his eyes clenched shut. He could feel his knees going weak underneath him, as if his muscles were being melted down into nothing but liquid. 

He collapsed on top of her, her head hitting the cabinet audibly as he did, both of them content to remain in silence, their heaving breaths, still hot, filling the room like a thick fog, as they came down from their high. Their bodies were sticky with sweat and even as a bead ran down his neck, Draco didn’t dare wipe it. Neither of them moved or even spoke for minutes, clinging to one another as if they were the only thing keeping them rooted to this world, to sanity. That was true however, in Draco’s case anyway. He was still buried inside of her, not wanting to lose this feeling, this wholeness. Hermione didn’t seem to want to end it either, because, despite the limpness of her limbs, she still had her legs wrapped around his waist. Her nails had loosened, releasing him, but her fingertips still drew patterns against his skin, so light that he could shiver at the feeling.

After a few minutes of just breathing in her scent, a scent he would gladly drown in, now mingled with the musk of their lust, Draco peeled his head from Hermione’s shoulder to look at her. Her eyes were still closed, a faint, satisfied smile on her face. Her head was leaned back against the cabinet she’d hit her head on, her hair in total disarray. Her cheeks were still perfectly pink, her exposed neck covered in purple splotches. She was still drawing lazy shapes against his skin, not stopping even when she opened her left eye to see him staring at her, awestruck. 

She lifted her mouth into a smile, a smile he hasn’t seen in a long time. In their post-coital haze, there was just them, only them and no one else. And it was blissful. He finally pulled out of her, his cock now flaccid, the whole feeling still lingering, but something about it shifted, though he still allowed himself to feel content for the first time in years. Hermione dropped her legs from around them, dangling from the counter limply, his nail marks prominent against her pale skin. She stilled her fingers’ movement on his back, but didn’t remove them from his bare skin. “We wasted a lot of time.” She said, her voice soft as she looked at him through hooded lids. Draco hummed in agreement, nodding slightly, “Indeed we did.”

He finally mustered enough strength to lift his arm, brushing his fingers gently across her dusting of freckles. She leaned into his touch, allowing her eyes to slip shut once more and Draco couldn’t help but think about how picturesque she looked. He moved his fingers, taking her chin in his hand, guiding her up to meet his lips gently, carefully, as if he were afraid that she’d fade away if he kissed her any less delicately. In truth, he was. When they parted, her eyes fluttered open, revealing the depth hidden in them. 

They stayed there like that for a while, simply enjoying the feel of each other’s skin, not saying much at all, but saying so much all the same. Draco was in the process of putting on his pyjama pants when he spotted the firewhiskey on the table, his empty glass sitting next to it. The fog over his senses, over reality, cleared and it hit him harder than a brick wall. He remembered where he was and why he was there. He remembered what had happened earlier that day and why he was drinking. He remembered the camp, the bodies, the prisoners, the wretched smell of decay and death, Justin, his mother. He immediately felt guilty, selfish for what he had done instead of completing his ritual, paying his respects.  
The change must have shown on his face, as Hermione approached him, a careful hand caressing his cheek. “What’s wrong?” She asked, concern etched into her brow. Draco’s eyes flicked away from hers and to the bottle, which had maybe a glass left in it. He shook his head, trying to will away the memories that plagued him. His eyes focused in on it as he spoke, leaning into Hermione’s touch, though the lost look in his eye seemed to concern her more. “It’s fine.” He said, not taking his eyes off of the object on the table. Hermione’s eyes followed the path of his, settling on the bottle. A seemingly understanding look washed over her face. 

“Draco,” She said, drawing his attention back to her, though he was still distracted, his brain clouded with what he had to do. “Hmm?” He replied. “I’m going to bed, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.” She said, a small smile on her face. She leaned up on her tiptoes, placing a kiss on his lips which he responded to, despite his distracted behavior. As she moved to walk away, he caught her by the wrist, pulling her back to him for another peck. “Go to my room. I’ll be there in a minute. I just… have to do something.” Hermione froze for a short moment, a barely noticeable one before nodding. He let go of her wrist and she slipped away, her mug plunking into the sink loudly before she walked out of the room into the hall.

He sighed, looking back to see if she was still in the doorway before pouring the last of the firewhiskey into his glass. He didn’t really think about what he was implying before he said it, but he honestly couldn’t care any less right now. He told her he’d be all in, and so that was what he was doing. In all the years he’s been here, no one else has slept in that room besides him and occasionally Theo; he’d kicked out all of the other girls almost as soon they finished. It was a step. A big one on his part. His room was his escape, his sanctuary and he was letting her in.

Draco furrowed his brow and looked down at the bottle sitting on the table, the damned thing being held over his head like a taunt. As much as he wanted to immediately join Granger in the bedroom, he knew he had to do this, for himself, for Theo, for Justin, for his grieving mother, for all those suffered at the camp, for those who had escaped earlier today, and those who had died there trying. He took the last few steps toward the table, wrapping his fingers around the bottle before pouring the last of the whiskey into his glass. He put down the bottle with a thud, glancing at it before lifting the glass into the air, which felt suspiciously heavy tonight, toward the ceiling, tipping it away from him, before whispering those same words once more. “Justin Finch-Fletchley; may he find the peace we’re all seeking.” Draco brought the glass to his lips, closing his eyes as he took in the amber liquid, inhaling the scent. He swallowed hard, standing there in place for a moment, allowing himself to grieve, just a little bit. He then placed his glass carefully (and noiselessly) into the sink, gathering his wand and undoing the charms before vacating the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I have most of chapter eight written so I will actually do good on my promise this time and the chapter should be posted in a week or less, hopefully less.
> 
> Please don't hesitate leave comments or kudos to let me know what you think about this chapter and the story as a whole; I love hearing feedback from my readers!!
> 
> Follow my tumblr, dilemma-ed, for updates and previews for this story as well as other works such as my WIP Broken, fic recs and general posts about books, writing and Harry Potter:)
> 
> Until next time,  
> -Em


	8. Marcus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, so I absolutely suck. I know it and I'm sorry. First, I want to wish you all a Merry late Christmas and a Happy Holidays. 
> 
> Second, I want to formally apologize for this being so late. I had most of the chapter written already when I posted chapter seven, but it felt incomplete to me, so I added a whole section to it, but the transition didn't really make sense to me. I kept going back and going back, trying to fix where it felt awkward and it took awhile, but I was finally able to fix it, with the help of my amazing beta, closer-to-monkey.
> 
> I also want to explain that this chapter, like the other chapters, jumps a significant amount of time into the future, but there are flashbacks in it and future chapters will also have flashbacks in them that will fill in the gaps in the war and in Draco and Hermione's relationship.
> 
> Anyway here it is and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> -Em

It’s been months since the house had last lost a resident, from when Draco had last performed his ritual on that fateful night where everything had changed. In fact, it had been one-hundred and nineteen days since they had lost Justin Finch-Fletchley, since Draco had visited that camp that tore apart even the strongest of wills. They were all just getting comfortable, getting used to living with the same people, but of course, that was their mistake. There was no comfort in war; no one was safe from the strife that it caused. They’d let their guard down a fraction of an inch. It was the longest they’d gone in years without losing someone, but the streak was broken on the hot, sticky summer night in mid-August. 

They’d finally had a break from some of the destruction that plagued the world. After having lost two residents barely within a month of each other along with a third of the Golden Trio and the rescue mission at the camp, they’d all taken it as a gesture that maybe the war might end sometime in the foreseeable future with the Order on the winning end. Of course, it had been too good to be true. Draco knew it was; he never allowed himself to believe for a minute that it was over. It wasn’t over until Voldemort lost his head, until he himself could spit on the face that was evil incarnate. 

Marcus Belby was killed tonight. There was an explosion on the battlefield, a new kind of spell, from what he was told by Hermione, it’s similar to a muggle land mine. Belby had been running away from the explosion when he was hit with a jelly-legs hex, sending him to the ground in a heap. He slipped and struggled to get back up, to regain control of his legs, to run away from the approaching threat, but he was unable to. He was soon approached and then murdered brutally by Fenrir Greyback, who tore Belby’s heart from his chest viciously and ate it. He had bite marks adorning his body, oozing still. When they found his body, the expression on his face was one of paralyzing fear, as if, even though he had already died, he was still scared of something that was yet to come. His eyes were dead to the world, empty voids, and face was covered in blood, the shock of cyan standing out in the sea of red. Draco had been among the many who vomited upon the sight of him, though he’d deny it if anyone asked; it was so gruesome, so inhumane. 

If Draco was being honest, the war was just as bad, if not worse, than it had been in months. Though their safe house had been saved, if you could call it that, from the guillotine that was the war, many others had died. Their side had been taking quite the beating. They lost a safe house about a month ago in southern Ireland, along the coast when a Death Eater clung to Dennis Creevey as he apparated back there. Catching the Resistance members off guard, the Death Eater managed to take down five residents of that house, including its leader, Arthur Weasley, and Dennis himself. The rest managed to escape somehow, some gravely injured, scattering to wherever they could think of in the heat of the moment. That attack was just the beginning. The battles still raged on, the rescue missions, the captures, the torturing, the death. They all continued without break, without even giving them enough time to take a breath between them. It reminded him greatly of a conversation he’d once had with Theo, a long time ago.

_ He was sick of it all, so sick of all the goddamn death and destruction around him. It was breaking him, slowly but surely. Draco threw his empty can of ‘Cream of Mushroom’ soup against the wall of the living room, the remaining chunks of mushroom, amongst other vegetables, slipping down the wall in what seemed like slow motion. “Draco mate, I know you’re angry, but don’t take it out on the soup. What did the poor mushrooms ever do to you?” Theo drawled from the couch, where he was lying upside down, feet in the air, head dangling over the edge as he smoked a cigarette. Draco scowled at him, kicking the floor lamp that sat in the corner of the room furthest from his friend. _

_ Theo smoked more than anyone Draco knew, but who was he to judge? He drowned his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle of firewhiskey. He enjoyed a cigarette here and there as well, maybe a few times a week, just to keep the edge off, but Theo  _ loved _ his nicotine. He ate, slept and breathed it. They all needed a release from it; they all had to cope somehow. So Draco had his booze and Theo, his nicotine and neither of them judged the other. He found irony in the fact that Theo’s vice was a muggle invention; it was just another ‘fuck you’ to the way that his father raised him. Some days, it made him chuckle, something he didn’t do very often anymore. But right now, his friend’s nonchalant attitude was pissing him off. “How can you just sit there like that?!” Draco said, pacing back and forth in front of the couch as Theo’s eyes followed him lazily. He took another long drag from his cigarette, tapping the ash off the butt as he did, the smoke leaving his mouth in short clouds as he spoke, “What? Upside down?” He asked innocently, kicking his feet back and forth in the air. _

_ Draco stopped pacing for a moment, shooting his friend a warning glare before resuming. “Not in a joking mood.” Theo said, mostly to himself, “Duly noted.” He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray sitting on the coffee table, pulling a fresh one out of the pack sitting on the floor by his head and lit it with his wand. He brought the fag to his lips, closing his eyes as he took in the smoke. “It’s been two years, Theo– Two goddamn years of this war, of fighting, of this house and nothing has changed! Not a single sodding thing is different in the world!” Draco pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, pushing forcefully against them. “I thought that after all this time, that maybe, just maybe, this war might actually have an end in sight. Am I asking too much for this to be over, for all of the death to stop, the pain? We haven’t accomplished anything! The Dark Lord will have taken the rest of England by the end of the night and there’s nothing we can do to stop him! Why can’t Potter just cut his fucking head off and be done with it so we can end all of this bullshit.” He yanked hard on his hair, feeling his frustration oozing out his pores, filling the room like the smoke from Theo’s cigarette.  _

_ “I’m  _ sick  _ of fighting! I’m bloody fucking exhausted and I want it to be over. Is that too much to ask?” His voice grew weaker, breaking off as he choked back a sob, kicking the coffee table, rattling the crystal ashtray, before sinking into an armchair to the right of the couch that Theo was on. They were silent for a second, the only sound the static of the telly. “Yes.” Theo said finally, moving his left arm over his abdomen lazily as he took another drag from the fag. Draco lifted his head out of his hands and with bleary eyes, he cocked an eyebrow. “What?” He grumbled, meeting his friend’s relaxed look with a confused, but mirthless look. Theo simply spoke, flourishing his cigarette around in a gesture as he did. “I said yes.” He paused, turning his head so that his earthy green eyes met Draco’s pewter colored ones, still confused.  _

_ “You asked me if you were asking too much of the world for the war to end, for the pain to stop. That was my reply. Yes, you were.” He stated it as if it were the simplest thing in the world, not blinking once. “ _ What? _ ” Draco repeated, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his friend, a pang ever-present in his chest. “War is a waiting game, Draco. It’s not that simple. You have to let it run its course because if it ends prematurely, like it did the last time, it could come back twice as destructive, twice as painful, killing twice as many people. As horrifying, as painful, as disgusting as this is, it could be worse; it can always be worse. All we have to do is wait and survive. One day,” He said, his eyes growing foggy with longing as he continued to speak, “One day, maybe not today, or tomorrow, or next week, or even next year, but one day, Potter will chop that noseless arsehole’s slimy dick off and then this will all be over. Only then will the pain stop, the suffering will cease and allow us the sweet sodding silence which we long for. We’ll finally be able to get on with our pointless lives and be normal, to live in peace, in silence if we choose it, in a house on some hill in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere, far far away from here.” _

_ Theo blinked back tears, taking a longer drag on his cigarette than he had all night. His eyes trailed away from Draco’s, staring out in front of him. Still sitting upside down, a single tear slipped out of the corner of his eye, dripping down his face and into his muddy brown hair. He immediately brought his cigarette back to his lips, inhaling the smoke into his lungs in utter silence. Draco watched him, unmoving, unblinking, his eyes filled to the brim with genuine concern for his best friend. It was rare that Theo laid himself so bare, so vulnerable. He cleared his throat, licked his chapped lips and then finally spoke, his voice sounding weak and  _ so _ damn exhausted, “But until that day,” He rasped, his eyes glassy, the blazing hearth reflecting within them. “We keep fighting, we keep trying to survive, even if it’s only for one more day, even if we die trying. We have to fight so that even if we don’t live, if we don’t see that day, the people we love, that we care about more than ourselves, will and they’ll finally be happy, even if it’s without us. We have to keep on hoping that there’s an end in sight to our pain, our exhaustion, so that maybe that day will come for us and that it will be worth it in the end. I hope to Salazar that all this bullshit will all be worth it.” They were silent for a while after that, neither wanting to break it as they hung in the weight of Theo’s words, his fear, his vulnerability. _

That night, Theo had laid himself bare for Draco to see, showing him how scared he truly was. Despite how he acted, nonchalant and crude, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, Theo was just as scared as everyone else. The expression on his face was one of hopelessness, of acceptance. He had accepted that he probably wasn’t going to make it out alive to see that day and that scared Draco more than any of the other shit he’d seen in this war. Looking back, now, Draco could see that Theo had accepted at that point that he would save him, or even Daphne, if given the opportunity, that he felt Draco’s life and happiness were more important than his own. That thought alone made him want to drink the rest of his bottle of firewhiskey in one go before crawling into fetal position, crying himself to sleep over the friend, no, the brother, he lost to this war. He would give anything to have him back, but he knew it was impossible. For someone so selfish, he was the most selfless man Draco had ever met. He deserved much better than the life he’d gotten.

Even after all these years, Theo’s death was as fresh, if not fresher, than the gash on his side he sustained tonight in battle. Draco fingered the wand he kept in his pocket at all times, the one that wasn’t his, letting out a deep sigh. It was Theo’s, of course it was. The walnut was slightly warm to the touch from being pressed up against his leg, but yet cold from lack of use. It was as if the wand knew that its owner had passed on, that he was no longer here. Sometimes, late at night when he’d twirl it around in his hands, examining every detail he’d long ago memorized about it, he’d swear he’d feel a small, ever so slight, tremor of magic coming from it, as if it had a pulse. It would go as quickly as it came, as if it had never really happened, as if it were all in his head. He’d swear on his life that it was real, though he’d never admit it out loud. It was a small something that reminded him of his friend, of the sacrifice he’d made. He would never forget about what happened and he’d never be okay with it, but he’d vowed to try to do the most he could with the life that Theo’s sacrifice allowed him. He owed him that much and so much more than he could ever give.

Once again, as if it were a surprise, Draco was seated at the kitchen table, his hand wrapped around that same glass that he’d always used, so forcefully that his knuckles turned white. He was staring straight ahead in a far-off gaze, his eyes looking, but not really seeing. His jaw was clenched, causing a muscle to feather every few minutes in between sips of the amber liquid. Only this time, he wasn’t alone. Things had changed since he last sat at this table, performing this ritual. In the chair next to him, sat Hermione, who was holding his other hand, drawing feather-light circles on the top of it carefully with her thumb. She had a stony look of mourning in her eyes as she stared down at her steaming mug, a sweet aroma lifting from it like the swirling coils of amortentia. 

Her face was flushed a bright pink from the heat, her hair brushed behind her ears. She wore a silver and emerald green quidditch jumper with a Slytherin emblem on the breast that was way too large on her, bunching at the wrists when she didn’t have the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and so long that you couldn’t see her shorts, but it suited her, even in her distressed state. Draco couldn’t help but admire the way that she looked better in his clothes than he did. The jumper was one of the few things that Draco still possessed from his days before the war and it felt ironic, but fitting that she wear it. Hermione’s bushy chestnut colored hair was sticking to her face and the back of her neck, sweat dripping down her forehead in beads. Why she was wearing a wool jumper whilst sipping a hot drink in the middle of August, Draco didn’t know, but it almost made him want to chuckle. She was even more stubborn than he was. He threw back another glass of Firewhiskey into his throat, relishing in the burning sensation that barely lingered anymore.   
Tonight, Draco sat shirtless, wearing only his flannel pyjama bottoms, scars open to the world. He had so many, the number growing by the battle. He always said he had more than he could count, but saying that had intrigued Hermione, challenged her, the damn swot. It took her more than an hour, counting each one with an open-mouthed kiss, before she came to a grand total of forty-seven. Some were small, less than an inch long, while others spanned almost a foot. They weren’t going to go away or fade anymore than they already had. He didn’t really care if they did or didn’t. They don’t really bother him as much anymore, as he sort of accepted their place on his skin at this point, well most of them anyway. All except one, the one that he’d never accept, never forgive himself for: the nauseating mark that sat on his left forearm, burning, as if there were a fire beneath his skin. Some days though, some days he still tried his hardest to scrub them away, to scrub away the memories, the war until his skin was raw, burning. The thought forced him to take another serving of Firewhiskey and swish it around in his mouth like mouthwash.

“Take it easy, Draco.” She said as he gulped down yet another glass. He scowled at her and proceeded to fill the glass again, meeting her eyes in challenge, just to spite her. “Really?” She questioned, her eyebrows raised. “You’re not my mother, Granger. She’s in an urn at the bottom of my trunk, long dead. Just ask Theo; he’ll tell you.” He deadpanned, “Oh wait…” He trailed off, his eyes serious as he connected his lips to the glass again, draining it. She was taken aback at the casual mention of his mother, of Theo, flinching at the words. He seldom spoke about his parents, especially his mother and she didn’t speak about hers much either; the topic was something they danced over, knowing how uncomfortable it made them both. He loved his mother, that much she knew, but he had told her little other than what he had told her on the night that he recovered her body from the Manor. He told her one or two stories of his childhood, but she never prodded or forced him to share when he wasn’t ready. She seemed to know that the thought of talking about his mother, her warm smile when she looked at him, despite her cold exoskeleton, her facade, made him feel as if he were about to lose the contents of his stomach.

It took her a moment to form her answer, seemingly tossing his statement about his mother out of her mind. He could tell that she knew he wasn’t really mad at her, just mad at the world, frustrated at the war that never seemed to end, taking so many damn lives. “Well, I’m sorry that I don’t want to see you kill yourself. In case I didn’t make it clear, I’m pretty fond of you and I enjoy seeing you alive and breathing. So, just please, slow down.” She stated, her tone laced with genuine concern. He gave her hand a squeeze as he nodded slightly. He couldn’t deny those eyes anything, not anymore, especially not when they were so full of sorrow beyond the feigned amusement that lay at the surface. “I guess I won’t do you any good if I’m not in working order.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, his lip quirking up ever so slightly, but refusing to make eye contact as he suppressed the remnants of what would have been a smirk in his tumbler. She elbowed him in the side, shooting him a warning glare as he set the glass down. “That’s not the reason and you know it.” She whispered, her face only inches from his. He nuzzled his face into her neck, kissing her lightly on a love-bite he previously left on her skin, causing her to let out an involuntary gasp. “Stop it, Draco.” She said half-heartedly, as if she didn’t actually want him to stop, but only said so to seem ‘moral’. He inhaled her scent, that scent that could only ever be hers, feeling it invade his body like a disease, a beautiful disease. He’d gladly let it destroy him if it meant that he could have her.

She had an effect on him that no one else had ever had, and from the way she reacted to him, she felt it too. That night had changed everything for them and from that moment in the kitchen, they couldn’t get enough of each other, breaking Draco’s only rule, but he didn't care anymore. It wasn’t just the sex, which was better than any he’d ever had before her and he’d been with his fair share of women over the years. It was that he needed her in a way that he never needed anyone else. He couldn’t stay away; once he had a taste, he was addicted to her. He hadn’t expected to get so much out of it, for it to last longer than a few shags here and there, but it had become so much more than that. He’d come to care about her in such a way in the months that came after, that it was difficult to sleep without his arms wrapped around her, without her body pressed up against his. He didn’t feel safe until she was curled up beside him, her face pressed against his chest, his chin kissing the top of her head, bushy hair strewn about. He found comfort in her, comfort in being with her. 

She didn’t make all of the nightmares go away, but they lessened and morphed. Many were about reliving the day she was tortured in Malfoy Manor by Bellatrix, haunting him as one of his greatest regrets, but others were perhaps the most realistic dreams of Voldemort getting to her, of her being tortured, murdered, right in front of his eyes and he couldn’t do anything about it. When he woke from one, sweating, almost-crying, sometimes screaming, she wouldn’t cower away from him; she was never frightened of him, even when he went for his wand. Instead, she would take his face into her hands, her thumb caressing his cheek in a pattern that soothed him, whispering, “It’s okay Draco. I’m here. It’s not real. It’s just a dream, just a nightmare.” She repeated it, over and over until his breathing and heart rate returned to that of a normal person. She’d run her hands through his hair, calming him down as she spoke. He wasn’t used to someone knowing this much about him, seeing him this broken, this raw, or even having someone caring this much. The only other people who had truly given a shit about him were Theo and his mother and they were both dead, long gone, taken from him by the war. Draco had always been very reserved, but for some reason or another, he’d let Hermione in. Well, she’d fought her way in, tooth and nail, as he fought her every step of the way. 

Those were the hardest nights, the nights where Draco would feel so vulnerable he’d want to push her so far away, but he couldn’t, so he succumbed to her instead, letting himself melt into her without so much as saying a word. He would hold her the tightest on those nights, drowning himself in her scent that’d become so comfortingly familiar. It felt like home, she did, anyway. She never said anything about it or commented on it, instead, letting him, sifting her delicate fingers through his blond locks soothingly as she held him, her breath light on his neck as she murmured or even just lay there, existing in the way that he most needed her. 

Just as she’d hold him, he’d do the same for her. She mumbled in her sleep when she had nightmares, her eyebrows furrowing, her lip curling into a hard line. Her breathing would become laboured, then the mumbling would start and sometimes, she would thrash or cling to the sheets, or him, for dear life as she panicked. Most of the time, he couldn’t catch what she was saying, only the occasional mention of her parents’ names, Potter’s name, Weasley’s, or his own name along with the word ‘no’, usually stated repeatedly. Potter’s had become more common as of late. He knew that she missed him dearly, especially now that Weasley was dead and that Potter, along with himself, were the only people Hermione had left.

She would whimper softly, clutching onto his hand so hard that it would leave marks that would bleed, sometimes lingering for days. He would wake her up, shaking her gently, talking to her the same way that she did him, though probably not as gently, he could never match her mollifying tone. He never thought himself good enough at the kindness and comfort thing. Sometimes, she’d wake with a start, sometimes, she’d hit him, not realizing who he was or what was going on, remaining in a dream-like state of paranoia as he tried to restrain her. When she finally calmed down, her fists unclenching, her face relaxing as her eyes scanned the room, and his face about a hundred times, she would curl up into him, sobbing, as he whispered, “Granger, it was just a dream. Granger, you’re alright. Hermione, you’re alright.” Most nights when this happened, she would shake her head, her fingers moving to feel every inch of his face, making sure that he was real, that he was okay before she would completely calm down. He would let her, knowing how real his dreams could sometimes feel. She would move as close to him as humanly possible, her face pressed into his chest and he’d hold her there until he was sure that she was okay, falling back to sleep in his arms. Neither of them ever spoke to one another about what they saw, but found solace in the presence of the other, clinging to them desperately. 

Their relationship, their dynamic, from the beginning had felt as if they’d jumped into the deep end of a swimming pool instead of wading down the steps. They’d never be normal and they both knew it, so, true to their promise, they went ‘all in’, throwing all they had into each other, even when it was hard to do so. Things had been strange, so strange at the beginning. They’d kept it mostly secret, as it still was, though many had guessed as much, as Lavender Brown had the nose of a bloodhound for sniffing out gossip, even now, well into her twenties, fighting a war. Well, he guessed, some things never changed. 

But it hadn’t been easy, him and Hermione, it still wasn’t, but they fought for them, for those moments of peace they got with one another, for those short moments when it felt as if the world had stilled and it was just them, alone, clinging to the only light they could find in the darkness. Those moments were what made it all worth it, what made the conflict he felt inside himself, telling him he was damning himself, telling him to push away, to retreat back into himself, fade away. Because he did still shut down. 

There were moments where he’d drink until he passed out, until he was heaving into the toilet to the point where there was only bile and spittle left inside of him, though his guts wrenched on and on. There were the days where he’d smoke an entire pack of cigarettes and sit there, letting the nicotine infused haze take over for hours. He’d just sit there, letting his grief, his guilt, his pain, cover him in a blanket of smoke. There were nights, where he’d pick fights with Hermione until she left his room, refusing to sleep in the same bed as him, because he felt that, even after all he’d done, he still wasn’t doing enough because, even though he had those perfect, blissful moments with her, the war still raged on. He felt that he didn’t deserve those moments. Those precious moments that Theo had given his life for him to have.

Hermione didn’t give into his shit, didn’t let him wallow in his self-pity. He was glad. It was… refreshing not to be with someone who was practically cowering away from him in fear and instead being faced with a challenge, an equal. She never once looked at him with a flicker of fear, not even when he was on the battlefield. She was the fire to his ice. The contrast staggering, but exactly what he needed these days. Somehow, she seemed to know where his sore spots were and where to poke and prod at them. It made it harder for him to hide beyond his carefully crafted facade. Even before this whole thing between them started. She was able to read his facial expressions, the slightest change in his usually stone-cold complexion. She’d seen right through him, as he’d seen through her in her weakest moments. It was strange, but not an unpleasant kind of strange. Despite all their differences, their arguments, their disputes, it was actually a wonderful sort of strange.

That night, the night when it all changed, when he promised her that he would be all in, that he would give her all he could, he had known he was crossing lines, lines that for years he was scared, absolutely terrified to cross. He couldn’t bear to lose another, to lose the only person he had left. Because that’s what she was: the sole person who he gave an actual damn about. Sure, he cared about others, Aberforth, Lovegood, hell, even Potter if the man was truly the only one who could end this damn war, but… There was something different about the way he cared for Hermione. He had not truly realized it, not let himself acknowledge it, delve into that part of himself, until that night. There was something about that swot, that insufferable bushy-haired woman, that made him forget every single rule, every wall he’s built around himself.

_ That night, when Draco had gone back into his room, Hermione was already there, reading the titles of the books he kept stacked on his desk in neat piles. He wasn’t even surprised; of course the first thing she’d gone to when walking into his room were his books. They were his favorites, those books, the ones he couldn’t bear to put back into the library. He kept them close, so that when he couldn’t sleep, when he couldn’t bear to close his eyes, he had something to do other than watch telly until his brain rotted. It had become an escape, those books. He’d picked them up whilst sitting in the library, many of them, actually, he’d seen  _ her  _ reading and then decided to check them out. _

_ He’d cleared his throat upon entering, alerting her of his presence, but she jumped anyway, putting her hand over her heart on instinct. “Merlin.” She breathed, shaking her head as she placed the book she’d been inspecting back on the stack. She had an expression on her face as if she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to, but it only amused him. He wasn’t surprised that she’d dared to go through his room at the first opportunity. Draco huffed a laugh, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed as he watched her. Hermione twisted her head over her shoulder to look at him, her cheeks heated pink, either from embarrassment or from the sheer bliss she’d felt a half an hour ago, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t care either way, but he guessed it was the former from the way she chewed on that bottom lip, so swollen still from his worship of it. She turned her head back around and she braced her hands on the desk, suddenly becoming interested in the papers and array of objects that sat there. “Are you okay?” She asked him, seemingly trying not to sound too concerned. Draco winced, remembering how she’d seen his expression morph into the picture of guilt. He pushed himself off the doorway, closing the door behind him with a quiet creak of the hinges. He cringed at the noise.  _

_ He sauntered over to where Hermione stood, her hands still braced on the desk as her brown eyes darted with wonder at the books once more. Draco approached her from behind before wrapping his arm around her middle, pulling her body to him. She held onto her spot against the desk only for a moment, a moment of contemplation, he noted, before leaning into his embrace, allowing him the honor of holding her there. He nodded against her shoulder in answer to her question, “I’m fine. I just had to do something.” He breathed out, not very convincingly. _

_ “See anything that interests you?” He asks quickly, changing the subject as he placed a barely-there kiss on her jaw, amusement dancing in his eyes as hers fluttered shut for a moment at the contact. Hermione leaned into his touch, curling her fingers around the arm hooked around her midsection. “Hmm,” She hums, resting her back against his chest, “You certainly have some interesting selections.  _ Quidditch Through the Ages _ , I can’t say I’m particularly surprised about that one. A potions encyclopedia,”  That book was his personal favorite, a gift from his godfather, another person lost to this war. He’d given it to him just before his fifth year, when he’d confided in him his desire to brew potions when he was older, to possibly work for St. Mungo’s as a brewer or own his own apothecary. He’d known his father never would have allowed it, but, that book… It represented the pipe dream he knew he’d never be able to accomplish. “I mean, you have muggle books here as well. Not even just muggle books, you have  _ American _ muggle books.  _ To Kill a Mockingbird, The Great Gatsby _.” She said, looking slightly amused. “I found them here; in the library.” He said lazily, nuzzling her neck. “You have Shakespeare here too. I didn’t peg you on that, though I shouldn’t be surprised. You  _ are _ a pretentious arse. It’s your style.”  _

_ Draco’s laugh vibrated against her spine, causing a shudder to ripple through her. He brought his lips close to her ear, his voice teasing, “Well you were wrong, my dear,” His lips hovered there for a moment, all of his restraint going toward not taking her on his desk. He nipped at her ear lobe, “ _ _ Doubt thou the stars are fire;” He placed a kiss behind her ear, “Doubt that the sun doth move;” His lips grazed her cool skin as he spoke, trailing the whisper of a kiss, “Doubt truth to be a liar;” He mumbled into the skin where her shoulder met her neck, flicking his tongue across it, causing Hermione to gasp, “But never doubt I love.” She finished for him, turning around in his arms to look at him. Her eyes were glazed over once more with desire, though there was a small core of bashfulness, of embarrassment hidden in them. They glowed, illuminating the low-lighted room in stark contrast to the greys and blacks of his bedroom. “ _ Hamlet _?” She asked, to which he nodded. “It’s my favorite.” She gave him a smile, “I’ve always been more of a  _ Macbeth _ fan myself. The magic… It used to enthrall me before I knew… what I was.”  She trailed off, a far off longing in her eyes as he watched her, completely enchanted by her skin, which was still radiating in a post-coital glow.  _

_ She brought her eyes back to his and chuckled, “I can’t say I’m particularly surprised in your choice of a favorite.” She inquired, backing away from him to sit on his bed. Draco raised his eyebrows at her as she did, “And why is that?” He asked, following her, but not sitting down, remaining standing to tower over her. She smirked, a smirk that would rival any one of his. “Because Hamlet might be the only person to brood more than you do.” Draco threw his head back and laughed harder than he had in a long time. It was a real laugh, a belly laugh that ached in all the right places.  _

_ When he looked back down at the woman sitting in front of him, she was giving him a cheeky grin, her eyes glowing with mischief. It made something bubble up inside of him, made him want to close the gap between them and take her again, this time on his bed rather than the kitchen counter. He took the two steps toward the bed, climbing onto it, straddling her as she moved further up the mattress, laughing still. He took her small wrists in his hands, pushing them up above her head before claiming her lips with his own, letting his desire consume him.  _

Draco would never forget the way Hermione had looked that night, her untamable hair splayed recklessly all over his sheets, her eyes bright, her cheeks rosy. She’d stayed the whole night through, something he’d never allowed another woman to do. It had just felt… too intimate to do before. As if they might expect something from him if he’d let them stay. He didn’t particularly feel inclined to hold any of them anyway. That, and well, the nightmares. He often thrashed, often yelled and woke up with his voice hoarse, his cheeks wet with tears he didn’t remember shedding. He didn’t exactly want one of those girls he’d bedded to wake up to his screaming. Though, for some reason or another, he’d allowed Hermione to stay that night, to let her in further than any other he’d slept with. Clothed in nothing but his blankets, he had pulled her close to him, wrapping his strong arms around her body, burying his face in her neck as he shut his eyes that night, breathing in her scent. He’d had no nightmare that night, a rare occurrence, but he had a feeling deep in his bones that Hermione might not mind, that she might understand because she’d told him that she gets them too.

Hermione lifted her mug to her mouth, slurping up some of the liquid in the way that only she did. He couldn’t help but let out an involuntary snort at the sound, Firewhiskey shooting up his nose, burning his sinuses, but it was worth it. It was a sound specific to her, something that used to make his blood boil, but now made him want to smile, which he didn’t do very often these days. “Must you laugh every time?” She said, pursing her lips, her face flushing red with embarrassment as she tried to keep her disapproving expression, but failing to do so as her lip betrayed her by quivering up into a smile. He nodded, pulling her in closer at the waist. “Always.” He whispered into her ear, placing a strategic open-mouthed kiss behind it, on her sensitive spot. She released a hitched breath, her eyes almost immediately snapping shut, but she caught herself, eyelids fluttering. “I hate you.” She grumbled back as she turned her head to look into his eyes, narrowing hers at him in a joking manner. He flashed a proud smile, “I know; you absolutely loathe me, just as I abhor you. I can’t stand you. Obviously.” He said, placing a chaste kiss on her lips. She rolled her eyes at him, placing a careful peck on his lips, leaving behind the sweet taste of sugar milk. “You’re incorrigible.” She huffed. “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘incredible’ perhaps.” He replied and she shook her head, her lip curled into a smile.

His expression turned back to a blank one, taking another sip out of his cup. Everything about the war was still the same as it had been a year ago, if anything, it was worse. Voldemort was still extremely powerful, his Death Eater ranks growing by the day, but so were the Order’s. More and more people are becoming willing to fight for what’s right rather than hide in the shadows, knowing that the threat wouldn’t just go away. They were still very much at war, people dying left and right. The Order hadn’t lost hope yet; they were pushing back as hard or harder than they have been for years. They pounded Voldemort’s ranks with battles, attacks and small acts of rebellion. It felt as if it could go on like this forever until there were no more people left to fight, no more warriors left to defend the innocent, no more survivors.

Hermione shifted herself toward him, moving her hand to his bare torso, just below his ribcage. Her hands were warm from cupping the mug, causing him to melt under her touch, not like he didn’t any other time she touched him. She ran a finger to his longest scar, starting at his sternum, going all the way down to just before his navel in a jagged line. She loved to trace his many scars, telling him that they somehow made him more beautiful to her. He hadn’t the faintest idea as to why. When she’d first told him, he’d laughed in her face, stating that she had a thing for bad boys, to which she slapped him in the back of the head. He fought the urge to shiver at her careful movements. He knew that scar as his sectumsempra scar; the one that Potter had instilled in him back in his sixth year. Hermione knew that as she ran the length of it, gently stopping when she reached its end, but keeping her hand on him. 

She looked up, her espresso colored eyes wide as they locked on his. They were frozen there for a beat or two, just looking at each other before he broke their eye contact. His gaze trailed to her cheek, where he lifted his hand to carefully reach the gash that was still healing from tonight’s mission. It was considerably small, definitely one of the lesser injuries she’d sustained in the years they’d been here, but looked deep. As the pad of his forefinger touched the slice, she winced a little bit, moving backwards from his touch. 

“Why didn’t they give you healing balm for this?” He asks, his thumb tracing underneath the gash although he probably already knew the answer and he wasn’t going to like it. “Take a wild guess.” She replied in an absent tone, shrugging it off as if it were no big deal. Draco sighed, shaking his head. He knew exactly why. He could feel irritation creeping up on his tongue. “Fucking hell.” He breathed. “It’s not even like you’d need much.” He muttered, eyeing the cut. It wasn’t as long as it was deep, but as deep as it was, it wasn’t serious enough to scar and for that he was grateful. Not that he minded her battle scars; in fact he loved them, worshipped each one, infatuated by them, from the one on the nape of her neck to the jagged one on her hip that suspiciously looked like an ‘M’ to the one on her heel that was barely an inch in length. He cherished each one because it was a part of her. But no matter how much he liked them, she was self conscious of any one that couldn’t be covered with clothes. Who was he to judge? He hated his just as much. “That’s why they’re not giving it to me; because I don’t  _ need  _ it.” She stated matter-o-factly, her tone just pushing that of irritation. He scoffs, rolling his eyes at the words. 

He threw back yet another glass of Firewhiskey, placing the glass back down onto the table rather forcefully. Supplies, specifically medical supplies, have been scarce for months now, forcing minor injuries to go untreated, like the one Hermione had now. Only the major injuries are to be treated, they were told, none to the ‘scrapes and bruises’. It was an another unfortunate consequence of the war and it irked him to no end. “It’s fine Draco. I’ve been hurt so much worse, so, so much worse. This is just a little scratch.” She assures him, her own hand meeting his, pulling it away from her face by intertwining their fingers again. She knew how protective he gets, especially when she was injured.

His eyes still lingered on the cut, his eyebrows furrowed into a line. He was sure he had a worried look on his face, but he couldn’t help it. She took her other hand and put it on his face, pulling him to look into her eyes. “Hey.” She said, her eyes wide. “Draco look at me.” She continued, moving practically into his lap, straddling him. He could feel himself getting angrier, not at Hermione, but at the situation, the war, as he often found himself doing. His silvery eyes trailed to meet hers as he released a defeated sigh. He knew what was coming. She could see the annoyance building up inside him, taking it upon herself to calm him down in the way that only she could. “I am okay.” She stated clearly, shaking his face as she tightened her grip on his chin, “Are you listening to me? I am okay.” She said once more, making sure that he understood. “It doesn’t even hurt. It’s a scratch. It’ll heal; there’s nothing we can do about it other than what’s already been done. I’ve already used ‘ _ tergeo _ ’ on it.” He nodded reluctantly, placing his forehead to rest against hers. Their noses practically touch as they sit there, Hermione’s hand moving to cup the nape of his neck, Draco’s left hand moving to wrap around her waist. “I’m sick of it; all of it.” He whispers. She nods against his forehead. “I know. We all are.” She says, allowing her eyes to flutter shut. “I want this bullshit to be done and over with. It’s been six bloody years.” He said, watching her closed eyes, trailing his gaze from them to look at the freckles that dusted her nose, to her parted lips in the most delectable shade of pink. Their conversation was reminiscent of the one he’d had with Theo, but he pushed it out of his mind, not letting him dwell on the pain of the memory any longer than he already had. 

They stay there like that for a while, neither of them moving, the only motion was of their breaths, which were just as warm as the air around them. He could stay right there forever, looking into her eyes, his arms wrapped around her; it gave him a serene feeling, as if he wasn’t sitting in the kitchen of a safehouse in the war that never ends, as if he weren’t completing this ritual once again, as if someone else hadn’t just died, as if people weren’t out there dying for this cause right now. She releases a sigh, forcing herself to stand up after lifting her forehead from his. He felt the sticky air invade his bare chest in her absence, not doing much for the sweat already dripping down. Draco tries to pull her back to him by her right arm, but she’s too far, only catching the tips of her fingers, causing him to groan in disappointment and longing. She turns back around, giving him a smirk worthy of rivalling his own. He purses his lips at her before she turns back around. He chuckled, admiring her backside as she swayed, walking to swiftly pick up her mug before placing it into the sink loudly. 

As he downed another full glass, just as he was swallowing, she came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck, causing him to almost choke on the liquor. He lets out a cough, shaking his head, a small smile etched on his face. “Merlin Granger. You could have at least given me a warning.” She let out a giggle into his ear, the sound warming him more than the alcohol could. She placed her hands onto his bare chest, her fingernails lightly tracing a pattern on him. He welcomed the chills that came along with the sensation. He couldn’t see her face, only the few rowdy curls that hung in front of his face, but he could imagine her biting her lip at that moment, as she almost always was. He could feel her breath on his neck, tickling, teasing him in a way only she knew how. She pressed an open-mouthed kiss along his jaw, lingering there for a moment before bringing her lips up to his ear. “I’m going to bed, Malfoy. I have to get this jumper of yours off my body before I spontaneously combust. I trust you’ll be in soon, yeah?” He shook his head and laughed at her exaggeration. “Yes, yes. I’ll be right in, you conniving minx. You go on ahead.” He whispered, turning his head so he could place a kiss on her mouth, catching the corner of it. Her fingers moved to trail his jawline as they parted, her eyes staring at his lips. “I’ll be waiting.” She said smiling devilishly as she left the room, heading for his, well, their bedroom, since she rarely slept anywhere else anymore.

He sighed, looking back to see if she was still in the doorway before pouring the last of the Firewhiskey into his glass. As much as he wanted to immediately join Hermione in the bedroom, he knew he had to do this, for himself, for Theo, for his Mother, for Belby. He stood up, lifting the glass into the air, toward the ceiling before whispering those same words once more. “Marcus Belby; may he find the peace we’re all seeking.” Draco brought the glass to his lips, closing his eyes as he took in the amber liquid, inhaling the potent scent. He put his free hand in his pocket, wrapping his slender fingers around Theo’s wand, pausing there, hoping to feel the tremor that didn’t come. Not this time. He swallowed hard, standing there in place for a moment aimlessly, allowing himself to grieve, just a little bit for those he’d lost, those she’d lost, those they’d all lost to this goddamned horrid war. He then shuffled across the small perimeter of the room to the sink, where he placed his glass soundlessly before vacating the room, snickering about what Hermione had in store for him tonight, his heart still heavy, becoming heavier and heavier with each day, each hour, each minute, each second that this war continued, tearing him apart from the inside out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, I won't suck again and not post for three weeks, but I wanted to wish everyone a Happy New Year, since the next chapter will probably be up in 2019 (wow that feels strange(ly nice)) to say.
> 
> Don't hesitate to comment or leave kudos; I love hearing feedback from my readers!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr, Dilemma-ed, for updates and previews regarding this story and my other WIP, Broken (which will be updated soon, I promise), as well as fic recs and general posts about Harry Potter and books in general.


	9. Alicia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo:) Happy (extremely belated) New Year! Yikes it's been a while and I'm sorry about that. This chapter would have probably been finished by Wednesday or Thursday had I not gotten sick, but it's okay because here it is. It's the longest chapter I've written for this story, topping out at over 13500 words.  
> A gigantic thanks to my beta, closer-to-monkey, for really helping me out with this:)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter:)

"You're really an idiot, Malfoy, you know that, right?" Hermione said furiously, keeping her eyes firmly on the work at hand, and not up at Draco, who was gazing at her through still-clouded eyes. "An idiot I may be," He said breathlessly, with as much arrogance as he could manage, flourishing his tumbler matter-o-factly, "But a rather attractive idiot who just saved your arse." He blinked his eyes rapidly, so as to clear away the fog clouding them, but with no such luck. Hermione didn't answer him, continuing to shake her head as he downed the contents of the glass. His usual glass of firewhiskey tasted as if a goblin had pissed in it; it tasted honestly and truly terrible. How had he not noticed when he drank the first glass? He was almost positive it had to do with the fact that he had been in too much pain to even care or notice. He'd registered that it tasted odd, but had been too incoherent to place it or even ponder on it. His face contorted in disgust at the taste and it took all his failing restraint not to spit it out. He took a deep inhale through his nose before swallowing, shutting his eyes as if it would do something to block out the flavor. He lifted the bottle of alcohol in question to his nose, smelling it. He put it back down on the nightstand, but not before refilling his glass nonetheless.

He tasted it again, trying to place the strange, rather repulsing aftertaste. Without looking up from what she was doing, Hermione provided him with an answer, "I put your pain potion in there. That's why it tastes like rotten fish." Draco hissed in pain, his jaw tensing as Hermione ran a delicate finger along the length of his wound. "Sorry." She muttered, although she still didn't meet his eyes. He just shook his head, taking another long sip of the, now-tainted, firewhiskey. "Why, may I ask, did you drug my drink and ruin my bottle of vintage?" He asked, his eyes clenched shut as Hermione wiped away some of the blood from his wound with a damp cloth, once white but was now stained various shades of red and pink, still flowing in a constant stream, though not nearly as much as it was. His vision was distorted a bit, his eyes squinted so that he could focus in on his witch in front of him. Her hands moved frantically working, casting diagnostic charms over the area she was yet to heal. "Because  _somebody_ thought that he's too much of a man to take the potion just like everyone else." Draco rolled his eyes, which took much effort, considering the fact that the venom that was coursing through his veins was still slightly in effect. "Now can you  _please_ stop moving." She said sternly. He huffed, but obliged her.

Tonight, twenty-six days after Marcus Belby was killed, Draco and Hermione were not in the kitchen, and it pained Draco almost as much as the gash in his side not to be. Instead, they were in his bedroom, sitting in a tense silence as Hermione worked. Draco sat as upright as he could, shirtless, slumped in against the headboard. His left leg propped up on a pillow next to him to both keep the injured leg elevated and to alleviate some of the pressure on his ribcage. He was covered in his own blood, the sticky red substance coating his skin, his face, his hair, his jeans. He was dazed, his silver eyes shone with unclarity as he drank, studying the witch sitting in front of him with as much focus as he could muster in his state. Hermione was kneeling on the floor in front of him, her clothes, her face, her hands were covered in Draco's blood, the dark red was matted in her curls, turning it a rich dark chocolate color.

Her breathing was laboured as she worked, as if keeping her hands steady, continuously working, was all she could do not to break down on the worn and scratched hardwood floor. Worry shone in her eyes as she studied his injury again, applying pressure to it with one hand while she rummaged with shaking hands through the medical kit sitting next to her, looking for something,  _anything,_ to stop the bleeding. "Dittany… Dittany, I need dittany…" She mumbled. Her eyebrows were furrowed in a sort of intensity that only appeared on one of two occasions. It was the face she made when she was in extreme focus, mostly when she read, but it was also the same furrow that she wore when she climaxed. It was almost enough to make Draco, in his compromised state, laugh out loud.  
 _Their mission tonight had been a battle in a forest somewhere in Wales, Draco couldn't remember where even if they had told him. It hadn't only been Death Eaters they were fighting, but magical creatures under Voldemort's command as well. The field had been covered with werewolves, banshees, giants, dementors and acromantulas. Their bloodlust made death by the killing curse look like a mercy. It was a bloodbath; bodies bloodied beyond recognition, limbs, body parts lying limp and bodiless on the field, hollowed out shells of people, half out of their mind if they were even still alive, left after dementor attacks._

_Draco had been fighting off a pack of werewolves alongside Daphne Greengrass. Though they were outnumbered, the odds were still on their side. They had skill, precision, and most importantly a plan, which ended in all ten of the werewolves dead on the ground surrounding them. If it were a more skilled pack, if it had been Fenrir and his mongrels they very likely could have been dead; they had been lucky in that respect. Daphne had almost been bitten, but Draco had pulled her away just in time, killing the werewolf as he did. Daphne had been stunned for a moment, having to blink herself back into the reality of what had just happened, or to be more accurate, what had almost happened. Once she gathered her wits, she nodded her thanks to Draco and ran off to help Anthony Goldstein, who was corned by a group of Banshees._

_Draco had looked around the battlefield hastily, searching for someone to kill, someone to fight, hate and adrenaline pumping through his veins. That was when his eyes had settled on Hermione, standing less than fifty feet away. She was fighting off a group of dementors, her otter patronus swimming playfully through the air around the dark, cloaked figures. She was handling them well and they looked as if they were going to retreat any moment. She looked so beautiful, even there, on the battlefield, covered in dirt and blood, hers and others, but thankfully, mostly others. Her cheeks were flush and she was panting, her wand extended in such a natural way it was as if it were apart of her arm itself. She looked like a natural born warrior, so graceful, so beautiful, despite all the destruction and death around her. He couldn't help but admire it, admire her, even if only for a moment. Just as he was about to look away, he saw an acromantula the size of a wolf moving quickly and soundlessly toward her back while she was otherwise occupied with the dark creatures in front of her._

_He immediately broke out into a sprint, his wand gripped tightly in his sweaty palm as he shot a curse at the spider, but missed. It continued to creep closer to Hermione, unfazed by Draco's attack. He began screaming for her, yelling her name to get her to look, to just turn around. He finally reached her as she turned around setting eyes on him, on the spider behind her. Their eyes locked for a moment, only a moment though it seemed longer to him, her brown eyes shimmering in fear at the desperation in his voice. Instead of trying to curse the spider before it reached them, he pushed Hermione out of the way, onto the dirt a few feet away, breaking her focus on her patronus, but keeping her safe from the spider._

_He had less than a second of relief before the spider tackled him to the ground, its pincers latching themselves into his flank, drawing blood and injecting venom into him, though he tried to kick it off as hard as he could. As he fell back, he heard something inside him snap, a gasp of pain escaping him as the pain reverberated up his leg. The spider had been standing on his wand arm, pinning it down, the spider's weight too great for him to be able to lift his arm to cast a spell, so he struggled underneath it as it devoured him. It felt as if he had two blunt knives stabbing into his flank and every movement aggravated them, increasing the possibility of one colliding with a vital organ. If the venom hit an organ, he would be dead within minutes. It stung terribly as he tried as hard as he could to fling it off of him, but it was no use; he was trapped. He knew acromantula venom was poisonous, fatal if his blood was exposed to too much of it. It was very possible that he was a dead man already. His vision was beginning to blur, either from the blood loss or the poison, he didn't know, but he still struggled. The stars shone brightly in the forest, appearing as beautiful white blurs in the sky._

_He wouldn't go down without a fight; he wouldn't simply roll over and give up. He had worked too damn hard to get to this point, to fight for a better future. He would fight for the life that Theo had died to give him. He wouldn't waste that, if only because he knew that Theo would have wanted him to fight, to live on. But if he died, he thought, at least it would be for Hermione, to ensure that she lived another day, because Salazar knew she deserved it more than he ever did._

_He wasn't sure how long it was, as it couldn't have been too long, maybe a minute or less, but sometime later, he felt a presence behind him, a familiar one that stood tall above him. His vision was spotty, his hearing distorted as he heard her voice cast a curse at the spider, blowing it backward and a second one to kill it. It was a lovely voice, one that sounded distorted as she shouted to him, crouching over his body. She might have been shouting his name, but he couldn't tell, everything sounded as if his head were submerged underwater. He blinked once, twice, before her face came into view over his. He was still lying on the ground, the venom pulsing through his veins as rapidly as his heart was beating. She was speaking, but he wasn't hearing her. He watched her lips, but his vision was doubled, making lip-reading impossible. Both of her hands were on his face, cupping his cheeks with clammy, shaky hands. He leaned into them as much as he could, just wanting to feel her, her warmth, her skin against his. He just blinked dumbly as she spoke to him. He could hear the battle, the war around him, but it sounded so far away._

_He knew he was dying, he could feel it in his very bones, but all he could see was her face in the starlight and he couldn't help but want to touch her, just once more. So, he lifted his hand slowly, it felt as if it were made of lead and looked, to his blurry vision, as if it were shaking quite a bit, but he lifted it nonetheless until it came to rest on her cheek, his thumb brushing against the soft skin of her cheekbone. She was still speaking, yelling it seemed, but it all sounded drowned, echoed. She grabbed the hand that was against her cheek, holding it there, only for a moment, before guiding it back to the ground. She didn't let go, though. She interlaced their fingers and squeezed. It only felt like a dull pressure compared to the pain he was feeling, in his leg, in his side, in his ribcage._

_Hermione's other hand touched the growing pool of deep red at his flank, causing him to wince underneath her touch. She withdrew her, now-bloodied, hand from him and reached frantically into her pocket, her fingers shaking as they grasped for something desperately. She was still speaking, softly, from what he could tell, but he still couldn't focus enough to understand what she was saying. It seemed impossible, as if her voice was so close, but just out of his reach. Close enough to hear the echo, but not the message itself. His chest was heaving painfully with each breath, the pain in his gut growing with each passing second._

_Hermione pulled out a small vial from her pocket, a clear one with a bluish-grey sort of liquid. She pulled the stopper out with her teeth furiously, removing her hand from his, leaving it feeling cold and empty. She unhinged his jaw, which he hadn't realized was clenched tightly enough that it took some strength for Hermione to open it. She tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth and he swallowed, glad that the foul taste at least covered the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, in the air. Slowly, the effects of the poison disappeared, or should he say lessened. It was by no means gone, no, just delayed. He could feel it, moving sluggishly through his veins. His vision was still blurry on the edges, but he was no longer seeing double. He blinked a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus, but they wouldn't. His hearing came back seconds later. Like his eyesight, it wasn't back to normal, but was stable enough. He could hear the battle in full swing once more, the booms, the screams, the cries, the spells, the hissing, the grunting._

_Hermione wasn't studying his face anymore, but was instead, lifting his shirt to study the wound beneath it. "Shit." He heard her mutter. "How bad is it, Hermione?" He said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he even realized he was speaking. His mouth felt as if it was full of cotton and speaking felt unnatural and foreign. She cleared her throat, ripping off a piece of her shirt to apply pressure to his side. "Well, it's not good." She said, seemingly trying her best to put humor into the situation, but failing to do so. He tried to sit up, to look at his wounds, but as soon as he lifted his shoulders off the ground there was a searing pain shooting through his abdomen. He hissed, shutting his eyes tightly as Hermione's free hand helped to guide him back down to the ground. "Don't move, Draco, please. You'll only make it worse." She said hastily. He looked down at her. She had her wand out, whispering spell after spell, but none seemed to be working on him, none were able to stop, or even slow the flow of red pouring out of him._

" _Shit, shit, shit!" She cursed again, shaking her head as she put her wand back into her holster, applying pressure to the wound once more, seemingly in the hopes to slow the bleeding just enough. "The antidote I gave you," She sounded breathless, her chest heaving, her breaths labored as she spoke, "It's a temporary cure-all. It works for most common poisons, but it only lasts for a few minutes. It will only delay the poison a little while longer before it wears off, we have to go back to the house, now." He nodded, well he nodded as much as he could muster. She kept one hand on his wound while she fumbled to get to the portkey that was hanging around his neck. She activated it, holding onto Draco, onto the chain, so hard that it hurt. He didn't mind it, as it hurt much less than any of his injuries._

_Draco shut his eyes tight as he felt the usually not uncomfortable, but at the moment painful, sensation of being tugged by his navel away from the battlefield, the gore, the screaming, the night sky. For a moment, only for a moment, he felt as if he were flying, soaring weightlessly, before his body, and Hermione's on top of it, smashed into the ground with a reverberating crack. He gritted his teeth, grunting in pain, his eyes still shut tightly. He could feel the beginnings of tears burning behind his eyelids, but he held them back, willing himself to inhale, no matter how much pain it caused him. "Shit." Hermione muttered again, lifting herself off of him carefully._

_He let his eyes flutter open carefully before they immediately darted around, albeit sluggishly, as he examined his surroundings. They had landed on the front lawn of the safe house, only a few feet from the porch steps, but far enough that the walk would be intimidating in his state. It was absolutely silent, only the sounds of the crickets filled the cooling autumn air. No one was at the house, save Luna, who was standing by if need be. He could feel himself dizzying, though he wasn't sure what caused it, poison, blood loss, portkey travel. "You seem to be saying that–" He broke off, biting his lip to fight back a scream as Hermione felt his ribcage with her bloodied, but delicate fingers. He cursed under his breath, his breathing hitching as she pressed down harder, probing the area. "When we landed," She said, her hands shaking as she tried to come up with some semblance of what to do. "I broke your rib. I felt it crack." He rested his head against the cool damp grass, moistening his neck just enough for him to feel it._

_She was kneeling next to him, her fingers of one hand fidgeting in her lap as her eyes darted around, searching his body for any other sign of trauma. Her other hand was still applying pressure to the wound at his side, trying to stop, or at least lessen the bleeding. "LUNA," She yelled, not taking her eyes off of Draco as she did. He felt as if he should speak, as if he should say something, anything, but he felt unable to muster the words, the ability. It seemed so far away from him as he lay there idly, the venom coursing through his veins as blood spilled from his body in seemingly endless amounts. "I NEED SOME HELP HERE! LUNA, PLEASE!" She screamed desperately, her hands trembling as she reached out, running her thumb once, twice, three times, over Draco's cheekbone. He leaned into her touch, or at least, he tried to. She pulled her hand away, taking one of Draco's hands in hers, running her hand over his, over every inch. "It's going to be okay, Draco. You're going to be okay. I promise. I promise." She said hastily, her breathing shallow._

_He intertwined their fingers slowly, turning his head as much as he could muster to look at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but just as he did, he heard someone throw open the front door with a crash. The vision of Luna Lovegood stood there, frozen for a moment on the porch, her mouth gaping at the scene in front of her. The corners of Draco's vision were still blurred, but he could see the horrified expression on her face as she beheld the amount of blood coating both Draco and Hermione. Her eyes immediately snapped back to Hermione, who squeezed Draco's hand once before letting go. The absence of her hand left his fingers feeling cold, empty._

_She ran her shaking hand through his blond, but now bloodied, hair. Lovegood rushed off the porch to Draco's other side, kneeling opposite Hermione. "Hermione, what happened?" She said, a contained panic present in her voice that would be unnoticeable if he wasn't trained to sense the slight changes in her dreamy tone. Draco didn't move at all, knowing that the pain, the bleeding would only get worse if he did. "He–" Hermione broke off, looking exasperated, unable to speak the words she wanted to say, instead saying, "Acromantula venom. A lot. Broken rib and a broken leg." She met her friend's eyes, seemingly having a silent conversation that Draco deemed too private to look on at, instead, staring up at the sky, the beauty of the stars on such a disastrous night._

" _Draco, love," Hermione said, brushing her thumb against his cheek. Her left hand was still firmly at his side, the piece of her torn shirt, now completely soaked with blood, still being held with constant force against his side. She kept glancing back to that spot, the spot where the blood-letting hadn't given way in the slightest. His breathing was unsteady, pain coursing through his body as if his very veins were on fire. He took a slow blink, his vision distorting a bit, as if the temporary antidote Hermione had given him to fight off the poison was beginning to wear off. "We have to move you inside." She said frantically, ripping off another piece of her shirt, this one long enough to wrap around him like a tourniquet. "I'm going to levitate you here just for a moment. To put this around you." She said carefully, holding up the piece of shirt. He nodded, but managed to grumble, "I'm," he broke off in a gasp of pain shooting from the gaping wound on his flank, "I'm not a child, Hermione."_

_She paid his statement no heed as the pressure of the ground lifted away as his body hovered above the grass, dripping blood into the dirt, drop after drop. In a way, it felt like a relief, the pain in his ribcage, his leg lessening slightly, but the wound in his side was hurting more freely, weeping with every beat of his heart through Hermione's delicate, but steady fingers. The pressure she laid on his side was a calming force, keeping him grounded as he hovered there above the ground. Her touch, just knowing that she was there, was keeping him sane. Even in this fogged state, he knew how wrong it was to think, in the face of all of this: the war, the death, the pain, the despair._

_Lovegood, her mysterious silvery eyes glowing, working on wrapping the makeshift tourniquet around him. He groaned in pain, his head lolling to the side to allow himself to at look Hermione, her eyes panicked. He could feel his sanity slipping underneath the pain, the poison that was slowly crushing him. His pewter eyes seemed to glow under the starlight, lighting them up, agony lining them. Everything seemed so far away from him in that moment, even his pain, roaring in his ears, his brain, his blood, seemed as if it were secondary, if only for a second. His chest was rising and falling unevenly, jumping up every few seconds in agony, though he fought to hide it from his face. With as much control as he could muster, he tried to keep his breath shallow to keep from puncturing his lung._

_Hermione's eyes flicked finally away from his wounds and instead met his eyes. The gold in her eyes were illuminated with worry, her brows furrowed as she studied his face. Her eyes shone with the precursor to tears, glassed over in fear. She was biting her lip anxiously, gnawing on it, though not in the way that she did when she was focusing, reading, in the way that drove him mad. Instead, it set him on edge, seeing the true terror, the anxiety in her expression. She seemed to be doing it so as to keep her lip from trembling. She looked so scared, so terrified. He wanted to reach out, to brush his thumb across her cheekbone, to hold her and tell her that he was okay, that he was going to be fine, but he seemed unable to summon the words to his lips. His heart yearned for her, their eyes locked on each other, as if there were no one else in the world, no one but this: Draco, Hermione, and the stars, the night sky._

_His lips moved just enough to form her name just as Lovegood's voice tore through the silence only previously accompanied by ragged breathing and muttered cursing, "Hermione, you have to let go of the wound. The tourniquet will hold, but only for a short time. We need to move him inside so we can figure out how to both stop the bleeding and get the venom out." Her eyes tore themselves away from him reluctantly, meeting Lovegood's instead. She nodded, gulping for air, seemingly unable to speak. She froze for a moment, less than a second before looking back to Draco, whose vision was becoming fuzzy again, his eyes dilating every few seconds in a desperate attempt to focus, though unsuccessfully._

" _Okay, Draco, okay." She said breathlessly, her eyes darting frantically. He knew he must look pale, a shade away from bone white, death white. "You're going to be fine, just fine. We're going to bring you to your room now. We have to lift–" Draco cut her off, taking a long blink as he spoke, "_ Hermione _," He said, his voice was deep, groggy and laced with agony, "Just do it." She nodded quickly, brushing back his hair from his eyes. She locked eyes with Lovegood as they together lifted Draco's body, though the dead weight of him was evenly distributed between the two women, they still struggled to lift him up the steps and into the house. As he was forced into a standing position, Draco let out a low groan as the pain rushed down his body, his broken rib scraping against his lung painfully. He bowed down his head into his chest, closing his eyes tight, his jaw clenched._

_Hermione was to his left, her fingernails digging into his gear jacket. He could hear her unsteady breathing, the shaking when she inhaled. Her grip was immediate, as if she was scared that if she let him go, he'd slip away from her. She was whispering to him, to herself, words of comfort, of reassurance, though he was quite sure that neither of them believed it. The growing thrum of pain nagged the fact, screamed it into his face with each groan, gasp, and contortion of his face, though she still whispered, "Draco, Draco, it's going to be okay. You're going to be okay. I promise. I promise."_

_Lovegood and Hermione hauled him through the house, trailing blood and dirt in their wake. He could feel the blood building against the tourniquet, quickly soaking it through. It wouldn't hold for too much longer, he knew. He could feel the antidote leaving his system, slowly fading with each passing second. They were losing time; the venom would soon take effect again and start to kill him faster than the blood loss could. They stumbled into his room, turning on the light with the flick of a wand. It looked the same as it did this morning, when he woke up, Hermione curled into his side, their legs tangled together, his arms wrapped around her, his face pressed into her voluminous curls. Her hairbrush was still on the nightstand, her bra on the floor. They laid him back onto the bed as gently as they possibly could. He let out another gasp of pain, fighting hard to keep it inside, but failing to do so. They took off his gear jacket, tossing it on the floor before peeling off his shirt, soaked with blood and mud. Now he lay shirtless, shivering and sweating, a fever beginning to wrack his body in response to his injuries._

_Hermione was instantly at his side, sitting next to him on the bed that still smelt like her shampoo, like her, like strawberries and vanilla. He shut his eyes and breathed it in gladly as Hermione ran her hands through his blond hair soothingly, in a way that would have come off as lazy affection if her fingers weren't bloody and shaking uncontrollably. Lovegood muttered something about getting supplies and ran out of the room with efficiency. "Hermione." His voice was barely above a whisper. He cracked his eyes open to see the blurry shape of her, the soft light of the room a halo around her head. Her hand stilled in his hair for a moment, "Draco," She said, shaking her head softly. She leaned down and pressed her soft lips against his forehead, slick with sweat. Her curls brushed against his cheekbones, his nose, his ears, in a way so familiar it ached. Hermione's fingers brushed through the silky strands of his hair as her cheek pressed against his, her breaths calmed slightly, warming his ear as she whispered, "My love." Her free hand found his, interlacing their fingers together, both of them clammy and covered from wrist to fingernails with Draco's blood._

_They stayed like that for a moment before his breath hitched as pain shot through him from the gash in his side, radiating up through his ribcage. Hermione pulled away suddenly, her chestnut eyes wide with panic as she examined him. Her hand was still in his, but her other one abandoned his hair in favor of his shoulder. "Shit, did I hurt you?" She asked. Draco shook his head as much as he could before another wave rushed through his body. He writhed in response, black spots filling his vision, as he clenched them shut. "No, no, no, no." Hermione said over and over, her hand roaming the surrounding areas of his injuries._

_He opened his eyes slightly, but he could barely see; his vision had blackened around the edges and where he could see, it was blurry. "'S w-wearing o-off, 'M-Mione." He managed before clenching his jaw again so hard that he felt like his teeth were going to crack, though that was a dull ache in comparison to the pain coursing through his body. "Okay, okay, shit." She put a hand to his forehead, to the skin that was now fever-hot, running her delicate, but calloused fingers over his face before she yelled out the door, "LUNA IT'S WEARING OFF; I NEED HELP NOW! I NEED ANTIDOTE, DITTANY, BLOOD-REPLENISHING, AND PAIN POTION." She was still holding his hand, brushing her thumb rapidly back and forth across his knuckles. She squeezed, but he barely felt it as he was distracted by the blood rushing in his ears, the shaking that was wracking his body. He shook his head rapidly, "N-no," He mustered, "N-no p-pain potion." Hermione looked at him in disbelief, as if he were crazy, but Draco continued to shake his head. "Just w-whiskey." Hermione looked too shocked to even address the issue, she just cast diagnostic charms with her free hand and clutched to his with her other tightly. "D-don't l-like it." He said moments later, once he'd gathered enough strength to speak again._

_Before Hermione could answer, Luna came barrelling back into the room, carrying a large medical kit and an assortment of vials and bottles. "Luna, can you get me the bottle from the top drawer of the dresser." Hermione said, as Lovegood placed everything on the floor next to Draco's bed. He closed his eyes again, everything seemingly moving further away from him with each minute. His heart was pounding in his ears at an alarming rate, his breathing was still laboured, his chest heaving with each breath. "Firewhiskey?" She heard Lovegood say dreamily, as if she'd never had a drink herself. If he was being honest, she probably hadn't. He didn't hear Hermione's answer, but he felt her hand on his face, trying to steady him._

_Her hand was cool, but clammy, her palm covered in sweat and blood. "You're burning up." She said as he leaned into her touch as much as he could manage. "W-well I'm h-hot f-for you, w-w-what'd y-you exp-pect?" He gritted through his teeth, his lip quirking into some semblance of a smile. Hermione snorted, a single tear sliding down her face. He felt the urge to wipe it away, but found he didn't have the strength. She smacked him lightly on his cheek, her lip wobbling as another tear escaped. "Must you be such an arse at a time like this?" She asked, choking off into somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "'Course, b-but I-I'm your a-arse." Hermione smiled a pained smile, brushing the fringe out of his steel eyes. "Yes, yes you are." She says, her eyes shining with tears. She leant down and placed a light kiss against his cheek, her tears wetting his face, but he found that he didn't mind. Her cool touch radiated through his face, his body. For a moment, she buried her face in his neck, taking a deep breath in, composing herself before peeling herself reluctantly away from his bleeding body._

_Hermione, still holding his hand, sat on the floor, fussing with the ingredients that Lovegood brought to her. She was muttering to herself what seemed to be the directions to the antidote. She moved quickly until the cauldron on the floor was bubbling with a strange smelling concoction. Hermione then stood back up, sitting next to him on the bed. "Just a few minutes, love, just a few minutes. Hold on, okay?" Draco just blinked, trying to force his vision to focus enough so that he could see her, really see her. Her cool hand found his cheek, her thumb brushing against his lips gently._

_A groan ripped through him in response to the venom pumping through his veins as if they were on fire. Less than a moment later, it felt as if he had a knife stuck in between his bottom left rib, stabbing and stabbing into organs, tissue, bone, with every movement. It was becoming unbearable. He was vaguely aware that he was squeezing Hermione's hand to the point of crushing bone, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. He was swearing with as much volume as he could muster. He could hear Hermione and Lovegood speaking in hushed voices, the mixing of ingredients and potions as he struggled._

_Hermione's hand was on his face, but he barely noticed. His eyes were clenched shut so tightly he was seeing stars, brilliant stars, like the ones above the house, above the horror of the battlefield, lighting up the sky in soft arrays of white. "Draco," She said, her thumb brushing his cheek. He tried to acknowledge her, but he felt unable, as if the pain was too excruciating to even move his head. "Draco, love," She said, her voice as sweet as a symphony cutting through the silence of a packed theater. "I need you to take this. It's blood-replenishing potion." He didn't respond, he couldn't respond. Her voice turned desperate as she spoke, shaking slightly, though she tried to hide it, "Draco, please. Just open your mouth; I'll help you get it down."_

_Draco released some of tension in his jaw and instead squeezed Hermione's hand even harder, but found himself unable to open his mouth. He just shook his head, a silent response to Hermione's plea. "Okay, okay." She said, her hand moving to massage his jaw, to wrench it open in any way that she could. He felt a scream lodged in his throat, but bit back on it, fighting the pain, the poison in any way that he could. Hermione managed to open his mouth just enough to pour the entire bottle of the potion down his throat before he clamped down again as another rush of pain caused him to whimper. She massaged his throat, forcing him to swallow it down. Finally, he gave way and it went down, giving him the slightest bit of relief from constant blaring agony that came with every beat of his heart. "Good, Draco, good." Hermione said nervously._

" _Hermione," Lovegood called from the foot of the bed, where she was setting Draco's break. "I have to re-break it to set it. Give him something to bite down on so that he doesn't break his teeth. I think there's a bit in the medical kit." He wasn't thrilled at the prospect, but he knew it was better than having to remove the bones and regrow them like he would have had to do if it was shattered and for that, he was grateful. Hermione immediately dropped to the floor, still holding his hand as she rummaged through the kit, bottles clinking against bottles, reminiscent of the way her mug often did in the sink._

_The next thing he knew, Hermione had wrenched his mouth open with little pleading as she slid the leather bit into his mouth. "Open your eyes, Draco, I need you to look at me." She whispered. He immediately obliged her to see her a few inches from his face. Her face was blurry, unclear, but he would know every detail of her face if he was blind. Even in this state, he could see the bright gold shards in her eyes, the warm brown orbs in which they were captured. It brought him a slight comfort, just knowing that she was here with him. Her hand was on the nape of his neck, drawing circles on the skin there. He was holding his breath in anticipation as he looked into Hermione's eyes through his foggy vision. "I remember the first time I saw you on a battlefield. It was… surreal." She said, a nostalgic spark in her eye hidden beneath the desperation._

_Her voice sounded calm, despite the quick rise and fall of her chest, the panic laced so finely in her tone he was sure that he was the only one who would know it was there, "You were so beautiful, so deadly. You had such a focus, such a killing calm in your eyes, I wasn't sure if you were able to tell friend from foe, but somehow… you managed to cut down seventeen death eaters that night. You looked like an Angel of Death, a speck of light within the dark as you cut down those who had wronged you. It was something I'd never seen before then. It was… mesmerizing. It was like a dance I had yet to learn the steps to, but you were a master, a professional, waltzing in an elegant, but lethal dance. You were the most spectacular fighter, warrior, I had ever seen. You still are." She kept talking, even as he saw Lovegood raise her wand, aiming at his leg, out of the corner of his eye, blurry shapes of silver and platinum blonde. With a resounding_ crack _, the bone snapped back into place. Draco bit down as hard as possible on the bit, swearing into it, his screams muffled. If he hadn't the bit in his mouth, he probably would have cracked a few teeth._

_By this point he had definitely bruised Hermione's hand, if he hadn't broken or given her a bone bruise, but she didn't complain, she only held his hand and kept talking, kept distracting him from the pain coursing through his body at that moment. She ran her hand through his hair, over his face so softly it barely registered. "You seemingly killed without qualms, something I hadn't been able to do and I still have trouble doing. It was something I'd always feared, but secretly admired, though I never would have admitted it at the time. I think… I think that's why I feared you, why I stayed so far away from you, though always watching, always looking at you from afar. I think it scared me that I was intrigued by you, drawn in by the idea of you, my beautiful fallen angel, of how you could make something as horrible as death, as war, slightly less horrible. You managed to make killing, death, war, seem graceful. I think I knew there was something else about you, something… different, even then, even if I didn't see it." She said thoughtfully, her eyes trailing to his lips, where at first, with the adrenaline pumping through him, he thought she was going to kiss him, but instead she tore the bit out of his mouth and tossed it aside._

_Lovegood moved to his ribs, numbing the area with a charm as much as she could, though he still felt the pain as she levitated the bone back into place. He threw his head back against the pillow, smacking it against the headboard. "W-whiskey." He rasped, his voice hoarse from screaming. Hermione obliged immediately, holding the glass out, which had already been prepared and sitting on the nightstand. She held it to his lips, quaking slightly as he parted them. Her shaking hand tipped the glass upward, just enough that the cool liquid filled his mouth. He swallowed it without tasting it, gulping down the glass as quickly as Hermione would allow him to. He hardly felt the burning as it went down, though his throat was raw from screaming into the bit. He bowed his head in gratitude as she placed the glass back on the nightstand, though he doubted she saw him as she was focused on Lovegood's words, which, to Draco, sounded warped, as if his head was underwater._

_He could feel the poison coming back, invading his body, his blood, with a vengeance. "'Mione." He tried to get her attention, though he was sure that his voice was barely a whisper. Somehow, she heard him clearly as if he had shouted, her breath hitching as he looked at him. His mouth was still moving, still saying her name over and over and over in a hushed whisper, a prayer, a plea. Her mouth formed words, but he couldn't hear them. He focused as hard as he could, narrowing his eyes on her lips, her perfect pink lips, on her words. He could only make out his name, over and over his name: "Draco, Draco, Draco". She had a hand on his face, her eyes wild as she spoke to him. The venom burned through him, causing him to tense completely, his free hand clenching into a fist so tightly he was sure he was drawing blood from four crescent shaped slices on his palm, though he couldn't feel anything but pressure._

_He broke off his muttering, choking on her name as he struggled to take a breath. Hermione was screaming now, though she was no longer in his line of sight. He still held on tight to her hand, no matter how hard she tried to get free, to free her hand so that she could further help him. She was kneeling beside the bed, next the medical kit, her hand shakily mixing ingredients together in the cauldron that was bubbling in front of her on the floor. Draco turned his head as much as he could, resting his right cheek against the pillow, his breath heaving out in small huffs. He was struggling to breathe, the venom causing his throat to begin to close up._

_With the last of his strength, he managed to move the hand that wasn't gripping Hermione's and fingered his way into the pocket of his pants. He curled his fingers around the wand that sat there, the wand that wasn't his, but one just as familiar. It felt warm to the touch from resting against his fever-hot skin. Theo's wand. His friend, his brother who gave his life so that he could live. But now he was dying. He could feel it in his blood, the very marrow of his bones. He could feel his body giving out, even his mind was sluggish, the venom beginning to pass the blood-brain barrier. His fingers sunk the ridges and dips of the wand, knowing exactly where each one was. He couldn't help but feel that if he were to die here, die to have saved Hermione, he would be content. If he couldn't live, to make Theo's sacrifice worthwhile, then sacrificing himself to the only person left who really deserved it, the only person he really cared about, would have to do. She deserved a life of peace a hell of a lot more than he did and honestly, he thought, Theo would agree. Soon enough, he might know if he did, he might see him again._

_He could only hear bits of what she was saying, as if his ears were tuning into a radio station that was half-static. "...going to be okay…" She said, she sounded as if she were trying to reassure herself, her voice anxiety-stricken. She seemed to be taking large gulps of air between words, trying to suppress the sobs that wracked her body. "...'S almost done. I promise. I…" His hearing cut out again, hearing only a muffled version of her beautiful voice, the tones of it so familiar, so soothing to him. Her hand moved quickly, trying desperately to make up for the lack of one. Draco tried and tried, but found himself unable to detach himself from her hand, as if he could no longer move his arms, it was as if they weighed fifty pounds each. He couldn't do anything as simple as release his grip or lift a single finger._

_Finally, after what felt endless to him, but in reality was probably only a minute or two, Hermione was standing up, a vial in her shaking hand filled with a putrid green liquid. Each breath he took ached, his chest burning as if it were on fire. He let out groan after groan with each uneven breath he released. His bare chest was covered with blood, smeared on almost every inch. He could feel himself slipping, the pain teetering on unbearable. He gritted his teeth, biting back on the pain as it pumped through him as if it ran through his veins, though, he supposed it did on some level, at least, the venom did. His eyelids fluttered, unable to sustain being opened for more than a few seconds. They felt so heavy, taking a conscious effort on his part to keep them open, to keep himself from falling away. He tried to speak, but no words came out. He wasn't surprised; he wasn't sure that his mouth had moved at all._

_His words, his thoughts, everything he wanted to say, felt lodged in his throat like bile. He had so much to say, but he couldn't even move his lips. He needed to tell her, to let her know how remarkable these months with her were, how they were all worth it, even if he had to die here, even though it wasn't nearly enough time, he would be ever grateful that he had this time with her. He needed to tell her how she had given him something so beautiful, so precious, he couldn't help but feel that he didn't deserve it, deserve her._

_He felt so tired, so, so tired. He tried to move his head to get a better look at Hermione, his Hermione, at least one more time. Her face was flushed red, her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, her curls seemingly gaining volume by the second, even through his hazy eyes. She looked frenzied, as if she'd gone completely mad. She looked so scared, so desperate that it terrified him. His lips parted as she wrenched his jaw open to pour the potion in, which was emitting a foul smell, that even in this state, he could smell vividly as Hermione guided it to his mouth quickly and without hesitation. "...Stay with me, love. Draco, stay with me…" She took a sharp inhale as she tipped the vial into his waiting mouth. He couldn't taste the potion over the coppery taste of blood that plagued the back of his throat, though he was sure it tasted horrific. She now had tears flowing freely down her face in streams, whereas before it was one or two tears. They were glimmering, shimmering in his distorted vision like rivers of starlight cascading down her pink cheeks. He might have been crying too, but he couldn't tell, everything felt too far away to tell._

_His eyes fluttered shut as he tried to swallow the thick liquid. It felt like tar inside of his mouth, coating his tongue, his gums, every millimeter of his mouth. Hermione massaged his throat as she did before, trying to encourage him to swallow it, frantic kind words spilling out of her mouth, though it was still mostly warped. Her voice faded in and out as his consciousness wavered. "...Please… Swallow it… Please…" She pleaded. He was hanging on by a thin thread, pulled as taut as a bowstring. At any moment it could break, ripping him away from life, from her. He gripped Theo's wand harder, needing to feel the warm wood against his palm. He could feel it straining as the pain overtook him, wracking his body with a shake so violent that Hermione was holding his jaw still._

_With all his strength, along with Hermione's assistance, he managed to choke down the potion, his eyes closing as he did. Her hand loosened from his jaw, limply finding the nape of his neck to hold onto. "Draco…" She said, her voice barely a whisper. His eyes were still closed, his breath beginning to even out as the antidote worked its way through his body. His shaking was beginning to still, becoming less violent, his body no longer seizing. Sheer relief went through him in a wave, flowing through his body slowly, the static in his ears clearing, his throat opening up again with, each breath becoming easier than the last. He felt the pain beginning to subside and with it, the ability to move returned. He wiggled his fingers, the ones holding Hermione's and loosened his grip finally. He felt her sigh in relief. She flexed her hand inside of his, biting back a hiss of pain. He felt a pang in his chest at the prospect of hurting her, of having bruised her, possibly broken some of the bones in her hand._

_He could feel the venom nullifying in his blood, his body, the noise, the pain, going still inside him. He was still in pain, throbbing, horrific pain, but without the venom intensifying it throughout his body, it was bearable. For a second, everything's quiet, the only sound his and Hermione's heaving breaths. He flexed his fingers around Theo's wand in a silent acknowledgement of his best friend, of how close he'd been to seeing him again. A moment later, when he gained the strength, he cracked his eyes opened, the soft light of the room filling his eyes. Hermione sat on the bed next to him, her feet off the edge. She was leaning over him, both of her hands were clenched around his in her lap; he hadn't even noticed that she'd moved it. Her fingers danced desperately across the landscape of his hand. She looked disheveled; her hair in disarray, matted with his blood, her shirt torn, she was caked in dirt, her clothes, her body, but he couldn't help but think how beautiful she was. Her eyes shone, glowing her gorgeous golden brown, tear streaks cut through the dirt on her cheeks. She was gnawing on her lip anxiously, looking down at him through worried lenses._

" _Fucking hell, Hermione." He said, trying to lean up on his elbow, but failing to do so, as pain ripped through his abdomen, causing him to swallow back a groan. "Don't move yet, okay? The gash on your side is still open. The tourniquet is still holding, but barely. I'm going to have to heal it in a moment. It's not bleeding as much now that the venom's gone. I just… I want to look at you for a second…" She said, placing a gentle hand against the tourniquet at his flank, seemingly making sure it's alright before turning back to face him. Lovegood, sensing they needed a moment alone, left, muttering under her breath, drifting out to the hallway, where he could hear people beginning to return. Draco was, for once, grateful for the strange blonde's perceptiveness._

_He reached up his hand from his pocket placing it on her face. "Hey." He said, his voice rasped. She gave him a watery smile, "Hey," It faded quickly as she lightly slapped his cheek, "Promise me you won't scare me like that again." She says, her voice barely louder than a whisper. He forced a smirk, "How else will I keep you on your toes?" He asked cheekily, earning him another smack to the cheek, though she couldn't keep a straight face. "Merlin, you're such an arsehole." She snorted, shaking her head._

_Before he could give another quippy response, Hermione leaned forward, closing the small gap between them, their lips meeting in a gentle, but desperate kiss. She seemed to be holding herself back, controlling herself, her emotions and whatever else was plaguing her in that moment. Her lips were soft against his, parting immediately at the flick of his tongue. He wanted to drown in the taste of her, to never forget it as long as he lived. He tried to convey what he was unable to speak to her before in it with each languid touch of his tongue, every nip of her bottom lip, raw from her incessant gnawing. He had to tell her somehow, even if he couldn't manage to utter the words, even now. There was a reason he wasn't in Gryffindor. So, he tried to tell her in the only way he knew how and hoped to Salazar that she understood his language, as she'd never misunderstood before. He felt Hermione release a muffled sob against his lips, causing him to reluctantly pull away from her._

_Her deep brown eyes were glistening, the amber flecks standing out against the low candlelight. He reached out a shaking hand, still flaked with blood, and carefully tucked a stray curl behind her ear, dark with his blood. He let his thumb trail her soft face, wiping away the single tear that fell down her rosy cheek. Draco could feel tears burning behind his eyes at the knowledge that he was the source of her pain when he tried so often to be the reprieve. She leaned into his touch nevertheless, her chestnut eyes remaining locked on his mercury ones, her brows creased. He was still breathing hard, the sound filling the room as they watched each other intently, studying each other. "I didn't mean to scare you, Granger." He said, breaking the silence that hung between them. She shook her head, pressing her hand against his, which was still resting on her cheek. She held it there only for a moment, pressing a warm kiss to his palm before standing up, letting go of his hand, leaving it feeling strangely cold in her absence._

Only a minute or two after Hermione had began to survey Draco's wound, Lovegood had walked back in, a grim expression on her face. Draco knew what she was going to say before she said it, the woman had probably the worst poker face he'd ever seen. It was Alicia Spinnet whom they had lost tonight, the whole house grieving outside whilst Draco and Hermione remained in the bedroom to tend to his wounds. It had happened after they had left the field, though probably not too long after. Alicia was swarmed by a large group of dementors only moments after fighting off a werewolf. She tried to perform patronus, something she apparently never completely mastered, only being able to call upon a corporeal patronus on a few occasions. She was able to make one this time, but it wasn't anywhere near strong enough to hold back the fifty-some dementors raging toward her. She held them back for as long as she could, though it wasn't long enough to make any difference, before her patronus gave out in a flicker and they barreled their way to her. She tried over and over to summon another, but in the face of so many, she could only conjure a wisp of light, nowhere near strong enough to stop even one, let alone the dozens that were approaching.

Her soul had been sucked out soon after in a horrifying kiss. Her body had greyed immediately, any sign of life vacating her body, leaving her a hollow shell, no more than a vegetative being. She laid there on the field, Lovegood had told them, in a catatonic state for some time before Daphne had found her and realized what had happened. Alicia had suffered a fate worse than death. Knowing that Alicia was no longer a person, only a shell of who she was, Daphne apologized to her, crying, sobbing, as she came to terms with what she knew she had to do. Unable to even respond, Alicia had just lain there in her lap, eyes devoid of anything at all, completely and utterly soulless. Once Daphne had composed herself enough, she said a prayer to whomever would answer, though she knew no one heard her, before placing the tip of her wand firm against Alicia's chest, whispering the words she never wanted to utter to another on this side of the line, "Avada Kedavra." There had been no light left in her eyes to leave her, no soul to fly free in the night wind. The only indication of her death being the stilling of her breath, the stopping of her heart.

That alone was enough to make Draco want to finish the repulsive bottle of whiskey sitting on his nightstand. If he could have stood up, he probably would have punched a hole in the wall. Another one lost, another one gone. And Daphne had to be the one to do it, to spare Alicia the pain of living without a soul, of saving her from a life doomed to  _existing,_ never  _living._ Draco felt sick at the thought of Alicia's soulless eyes, looking, but never  _seeing_  again. It might not be the most gruesome way to go in this war, but it's one of the cruelest, one of the most horrific things he'd ever seen. To look into soulless eyes was to truly see, to know how awful this war had become, this world had become. It was a true testament to how fucked up this world had become, how people, human beings had become. For someone to have to murder their own friend, their own ally, to give them release from this horrible life, to show them mercy when this world had shown them none. To know that death was a comfort rather than a burden in most cases. That a quick death, a lethal flash of green light, was sometimes, if not always, easier than living with yourself, than surviving. The war was taking too much, sucking out all the humanity left and transforming it into something horrific, something that makes death,  _murder_ , a kindness rather than a crime against another. It made the bile rise in his throat just thinking about it, about how close he'd been to that salvation, how he had almost accepted it, if it had not been for Hermione.  _Hermione._

He'd seen the look on her face when Lovegood had revealed what happened. She completely stilled, her eyes filling with something unidentifiable, even by him. It scared him. He was usually able to read her like a book, to be able to tell what she was feeling from a single expression, from a glint in her eyes when no one else could, but she was speechless, disconnected and it terrified him. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't know how. All he knew was that what Daphne had done for Alicia, someone whom she had become close friends with in these past few months, was a kindness, as much as it pained him to say it, because living like that… it's not life at all.

Now, Hermione was still tending to the wound on his side, which was still bleeding despite her efforts. She was frustrated, Draco could tell; it was radiating off of her body in waves. She had given him another blood-replenishing potion after she'd sat him up and he'd gotten woozy. To be honest, he still was, though it was probably due to the pain and the last of the poison in his system rather than the blood loss. He took another swig of the drugged firewhiskey, if only to appease Hermione, though if he was being completely honest, he wasn't going to waste a perfectly good bottle just because she'd put pain potion into it.

He hissed as Hermione cleaned the wound out once more with a charm, leaving a deep burning sensation behind. "Warn me next time." He said, pouring another glass of the foul tasting liquor, downing it in one go. She didn't acknowledge him, as she was too lost in looking for a vial in the medical kit Lovegood brought in earlier. It was the house's standard medical kit, as it had everything needed to tend to general injuries–to be used sparingly, of course–as well as some remedies for specialized medical issues such as poisons, werewolf bites, and, if the house was lucky enough not to have a resident fat-ass, a chocolate bar or two for recovery after a dementor attack.

Hermione pulled out a medium-sized dropper bottle, which he immediately recognized as essence of dittany. Hermione looked up at him and raised the bottle fully into his slightly blurry view. "You wanted a warning." She said mockingly, a small smirk gracing her lips as she unstoppered the bottle. Draco rolled his eyes at her, though was really grateful for the warning as he prepared himself for the intense burning sensation that would follow the application of the dittany, especially on a wound of this caliber. She put a comforting hand on the top of his, squeezing it slightly before taking the dropper into her hand, focusing intently on the gaping wound in his side, the edges an angry red in contrast to the crimson of his blood.

"Okay, take a breath," She said as she settled the dropper over the bloody mess, partially addressing him, but also speaking to herself. He gulped down another glass of firewhiskey, hoping to dull the burn that was yet to come just a little bit. He shook his head so as to rid the taste from his mouth, though it does nothing for it, the rotten fish taste staining his taste buds. He took a sharp inhale as he watched her, clenching his fist at his side, secretly grateful that she drugged his alcohol, even though it tasted repulsive. He would never tell her that of course, she would have a smug look on her face for the rest of the week if he did.

She had force fed him Skele-Gro only moments ago to help heal his rib and leg, which was wholly unpleasant and would continue for a few hours before going away completely, but seemed like nothing in comparison to the burning sensation as Hermione applied the first drops of dittany onto the acromantula bite wound. He clenched his eyes shut tight, cursing through his teeth as he released shallow breaths in an attempt to keep him from screaming out. It felt as if a hot iron had been placed on the gash, searing the still-gaping wound shut. Drop after drop followed and the pain only intensified, radiating over his abdomen, his muscles flexing as he struggled to internalize it. "Just breathe, Draco, it's closing up. It'll be over soon." Hermione said, her voice an anchor, one he was holding onto for dear life as she placed a few more drops onto his side. He cracked his eyes open, spots blotting his vision as he did. Hermione's hands were visibly shaking, though it seemed she was trying to still it as much as she could.

Draco forced himself to breath as Hermione put the last few drops on the now almost completely closed laceration. He watched as new skin grew over where the wound once was, only a slightly angry red patch of skin remaining. Hermione applied the last drop over the completely closed injury, releasing a deep sigh as she did. She wiped away the sweat from her brow, putting the stopper back in the bottle, closing it tight before placing it back into the medical kit. The pain that had been relentless began to subside, fading away as the wound did, the cells of tissue finishing repairing themselves.

As soon as the pain let up enough that he could muster a sentence, Draco asked, "Can I sit up now?" Hermione placed an open hand on his chest, over his heart, and splayed out her fingers, feeling his heartbeat under the warm skin. His skin was no longer fever-hot, but still warm to the touch and Hermione's fingers felt ice-cold. He shivered under her touch, the soft pad of her thumb stroking circles against his chest. She cleared her throat, swallowing hard, "Um, yeah…" She trailed off, her mind seemingly somewhere else. She shakes her head, curling her fingers on his skin, her nails gently scraping against him. "Just let me dress it, then you'll be able to sit up, but I don't want you to try to stand. You need to rest as much as you don't want to, otherwise you could hurt something else." Draco nodded, resting the back of his head against the headboard as Hermione carefully bandaged the newly-grown skin, still sore to the touch. He wasn't happy about not being able to stand, to walk, to go to the kitchen, but he obliged to her wishes.

Once finished, Hermione cast scouring charms on both of them as well as the bed, cleaning up the rest of the blood that was smeared all over them. She seemed dazed as Draco watched her maneuver around the room, cleaning up by hand rather by magic. It's one of the things he noticed about her; when she was anxious or something was bothering her, she went about cleaning and doing things the muggle way, needing to busy her hands to keep her from going out of her mind. Draco leaned on his elbows, forcing himself to sit up with a groan. He refilled his tumbler to the brim, downing the whole of it. "Hermione," He said, his voice gravelly, "Please sit down, love." She stopped her moving, bracing her hands against his desk. She shook her head slowly, croaking so quietly he almost didn't hear her, "I can't." She loosed a breath, standing there, her shallow breaths rising and falling. "Please, Hermione." He pleaded with her softly, taking a sip out of the glass in his hand, now numb to the twisted taste of it.

The room was silent, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking for what felt like a long time. He watched Hermione carefully, concern laced in his silver eyes. He wanted more than anything to be able to go to her, to wrap his arms around her slim waist, to pull her to him, to put his chin on her shoulder and whisper in her ear, but he couldn't even stand, could barely even move. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of him watching her deep, steadying breaths, the shaking that wracked her body, she stood up straight, turning to look at him. Her brown eyes were filled with sorrow, with guilt as she stared back at him. She was fighting back tears, her eyes red rimmed, her brows furrowed in an attempt to stop the tears from flowing down her pink cheeks.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, taking a deep breath in before breaking their eye contact, looking down at her feet. His inability to go to her, to comfort her, was tearing him apart. His fist clenched the bedsheets, his knuckles white as he fought the urge to damn it all and go to her, no matter how badly he hurt himself in the process. His jaw was clenched, taking steady breaths through his nose as he watched her in her moment of vulnerability, powerless to do anything about it.

Just as he was preparing himself to stand up, to walk to her, she put one foot in front of the other, the dark wood floor creaking under her weight. Slowly, she walked to him, to the bed, one step at a time. She crawled into the bed next to him, on her side, drawing her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Her lip quivered as she stared straight ahead at the wall, the dresser, he couldn't be sure, though he knew she wasn't really  _seeing_. He finished his glass, refilling it and placing it on the nightstand beside the almost-empty bottle. He then leaned toward her, slowly snaking his arm around her body, pulling him to her. She leaned into him, albeit slightly, her shoulder resting against his bare chest. She was gnawing on her bottom lip, chewing it relentlessly, as she had been all night.

Draco took his free hand and placed it on top of her knee, tenderly rubbing an indecipherable pattern on her jeans. Her eyes flicked to the side, to him, acknowledging his presence beside her, though they flicked back ahead a moment later. They sat like that, in tense silence as Draco fought to hold his tongue lest he upset her, for a while. When she broke it, she spoke so softly he almost didn't catch her words. "It's my fault." She whispered, her brows knitted together. Draco pulled her tighter to him, shaking his head as he spoke, "What happened to me wasn't your fault. I  _chose_ to jump in front of you, to–" She cut him off, shaking her head, "Alicia. What happened to her was my fault." She said, her voice a bit stronger.  _Oh._ Draco stilled completely for a moment, unsure of what to say, what to do, other than that he needed another drink.

Taking his hand off of her knee, Draco reached for his glass, drinking down the contents before replacing his hands on her leg. "How in the hell is it your fault that she couldn't produce a patronus?" He didn't mean to come off as insensitive, but when it came down to it, he needed her to see reason, to know that it wasn't her fault. She turned her head toward him, her face inches from his as she spoke, her eyes shining with tears yet to be shed. "I was fighting off those dementors when the acromantula went to attack. When I saw the spider on you, when I saw you hurt… I… I forgot about them. I dropped everything and ran to you. I didn't even think about the dementors… About the fact that they were still out there… The only thing I could think about was getting to you, helping you, saving you. It was all that mattered." She lifted a hand up and caressed his cheek gently. He leaned into her when she rested her palm against his face, unsure of where she was going with this, his heart pounding.

"I'm not saying saving you was the wrong thing to do because it wasn't… I  _had_ to save you. I  _needed_ to save you. You mean too much to me for me to even  _consider_ leaving you there." She said quickly, filling Draco's heart with relief. He released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "I never would have left you there, Draco." She said, her eyes sparkling as she stroked her thumb across his cheekbone, putting his heart, his mind at ease. "But I was selfish not to think about the mess I left behind when I took you back here. If I had, for one moment, just remembered, I would have sent one more patronus, the one needed to send them away, then… Then Alicia would still be here and Daphne would never have had to live with the memory of having to kill one of her closest friends." She finished, shaking her head. She removed her hand from his face, placing it in her lap carelessly.

Hermione blinked slowly, a tear sliding down her cheek. He leaned forward, kissing it away, nuzzling his head into her shoulder. He shook his head, looking her in her beautiful, kind eyes, the gold standing out against the chocolate brown. He wondered if this was the look in his eyes that appeared when he thought about his best friend, when he thought about his mother. The people who gave their lives so that he might one day live to see the sun rise on a better world. A mixture of sorrow for those lost, horror for the deeds done and a relentlessness, a never-ending feeling of guilt whenever he looked in the mirror, or looked at his hands, feeling their blood coating his skin, clinging to it no matter how many times he scrubbed the pale skin to a raw red. He wouldn't wish that on her; he could scarcely wish it on anybody perhaps his father, perhaps the noseless prick that started this war. Seeing that expression in her eyes cut into him like a knife, almost deeper than the desperation that had lined her eyes in the minutes when they had arrived back at the safehouse tonight, when she had surveyed his wounds on the battlefield, registered the lethal venom pumping through his veins. He needed to show her, to guide her the way that she did him.

"None of this is your fault." He began, taking her face in his hands, forcing her wandering eyes to look into his. Her skin was soft despite the undercut of roughness from scars that had long since healed, but would always remain. "For the longest time, I believed… I believed that I had Theo's blood on my hands. Honestly," He said, releasing a shaky breath, "Some days, I still believe it… I thought I was responsible for his death. The guilt was crushing me from the inside out. But one night, not too long ago you told me something that made a difference, that made it a little bit easier. You said… That I didn't… that I didn't kill Theo," He forced out, his voice weak as he spoke, though he tried to keep it as even as he could. "That it wasn't my fault that he died, that he took the curse for me because it was his  _choice_. That what happened to him wasn't my fault, that it was  _no one's_ fault. It was a choice, a horrible choice that the war, that the place that the world had become had forced him to make. And no, it wasn't fair–isn't fair, but life never is. We know that better than most, Hermione."

He looked down to his lap for a moment, taking a beat, a breath to control himself, to steady himself before continuing. "What happened to Alicia, what happened to Daphne, wasn't—and isn't your fault. Alicia chose to take on the dementors when she  _knew_  that she was hardly capable of a corporeal patronus. She knew the consequences before she went in. Daphne did too. They knew just as well as Theo did. She knew what she was doing when she put that wand to Alicia's chest. It was  _not_ your fault." He said, his eyes warm with understanding as he looked on at her, despair as clear as the brightest day in her eyes. "It was not your fault." He repeated as hot tears crept down her cheeks to graze his hand, his fingers, still holding her face gently, as if she were glass about to shatter beneath his touch. She licked her lips, a warm, uneven breath escaping her lips in a huff. He released her face with a gentle caress of her cheekbone, putting a stray curl behind her ear once more. For a moment she closed her eyes before turning her head straight again, staring blankly at the wall.

She shook her head, her eyes dancing across Draco's face, looking for affirmation, for some sign that it was indeed her fault. It made him ache. It made him want to pull her so close to him that he didn't know where he ended and she began. He wanted to protect her from this cruel world, though he knew for certain she could protect herself. She was looking ahead again, a far off look in her eyes, as if she were imagining them, imagining the moment when Daphne looked into Alicia's soulless eyes, tears running down her cheeks as she apologized, though Alicia never showed the slightest sign that she'd heard her. As if she were reliving an event that she could only speculate about. "It's not your fault." He said once more, reiterating it to her, so as to make her believe it, though he knew it would haunt her, at least for a while.

For a moment, he wasn't quite sure that she could hear him, that she was comprehending anything he was saying. Draco smoothed a comforting hand over her back, drawing lazy circles on the column of her spine. After what felt like a while, Hermione nodded slowly, once, twice, before turning her head to look at him. Her eyes were wide, flickering across his face, studying every detail of him. She licked her lips once more, now beyond chapped from her incessant biting. She didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. Draco leaned further up on his elbows, his face contorting in pain as a groan escaped his lips.

Somewhere deep inside him longed for the smell of sugar milk, the comfort it brought her and, though he'd never admit it, him as well. It was something he'd come to associate with her, the sweet aroma of it wafting through the kitchen in characteristic spirals as if it were amortentia. Though, he could only ever stomach the taste against her lips, on her tongue. He could never drink a glass of the sweet, ambrosia-like liquid himself.

He drew her lips to his, placing a gentle, chaste kiss against them, resting his forehead on hers. She looked at him through hooded lids, her brown orbs framed by her long dark lashes. His hand caressed the nape of her neck, twirling the curls there around his fingers absentmindedly. "It's not." He repeated once more. Hermione swallowed hard, taking a slow blink as she did, before nodding her head against his. She didn't reply, not verbally anyway. Instead, she lifted a hand, splaying her fingers on his chest, over his heart. He was certain she could feel his heartbeat under her fingertips. He knew that she couldn't say that she knew, that she understood because she might never. He closed the few inches between them, kissing her once more before drawing away.

He reached down to his bare chest and drew Hermione's hand up to his mouth, placing a strategic kiss on her palm, trying to convey the gratitude he felt. "Thank you, my love." He murmured into her skin, placing another chaste kiss on her palm before taking her hand in his. Hermione bowed her head, looking down at their intertwined fingers as she gave his a slight squeeze of acknowledgement. Giving her a soft smile, Draco pressed another kiss, this one to her temple as he stroked the fingers of his free hand through her messy locks.

Reaching over to the nightstand, his hand still in hers, he tipped the rest of the drugged bottle of firewhiskey into his glass. He took the worn crystal into his hand, holding it so tightly his knuckles turned bone-white. He looked to Hermione, who was still looking down at their hands, biting her lip softly. Draco swallowed hard, his heart heavy in his chest as he looked at her hollow expression. He had to do this, even if his drink was drugged with pain potion, even if he almost died tonight, even though it was almost his death he was drinking to. He owed it to Alicia, to Daphne, to Theo, to Hermione to do it.

Releasing a long breath, Draco lifted the glass into the air, watching the amber liquid swirl within it. Glancing down at Hermione, who was now watching him, fighting back against the tears that threatened to slip down her cheeks, he began to speak in a low voice. "Alicia Spinnet." He said, his eyes trailing to the window, where the rest of the house was laying their fellow warrior to rest in the garden, standing around the graves of those lost in a solemn silence. "May she find the peace we're all seeking." Hermione squeezed his hand as he brought the cool glass to his lips, shutting his eyes as he drank down the foul-tasting concoction, burning his throat, still hoarse from screaming, as it went down.

He placed the glass down as quietly as he could onto the nightstand beside the now-empty bottle. Easing himself down against the pillow, his body screaming in pain, Draco urged Hermione closer to him. She leaned into him, seemingly wary of his injuries. He buried his head into the crook of her neck, taking in her scent, one that he knows as well as the scent of whiskey. It was the scent of comfort, easing his heart, easing his mind, if only a little bit. "My Hermione," He whispered, turning his head to look out the window at the night sky. To look at the stars sparkling in the sky like diamonds in sunlight, somehow still infinitely beautiful despite all of the horror that occurs beneath them. He named a star for each of them, a bright beautiful star for each one lost, for each one stolen by this war from those who loved them. One for Theo, for his mother, for Alicia, hell, even for Weasley. They glowed on bright as Draco and Hermione held each other close, lighting up the dark night sky, a deep purple as night began to fade away, the fallen fading alongside it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm going away to Italy for my February break with my school and I leave on Valentine's Day, but I hope to crank out at least a chapter, maybe two before I go, since I probably won't have time to update while I'm there.  
> I also hope to get a chapter out for Broken, which I apologize for the giant hiatus on. I'm working on getting the next chapter out as well.  
> Anyway, please let me know what you think with comments or kudos! I love hearing feedback from my readers; it gives me life.  
> Follow me on tumblr at Dilemma-ed for updates on this story, as well as my other WIP, Broken, as well as fic recommendations and general posts about Harry Potter and books in general:)
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> Em


	10. Theo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I deeply apologize for this being so late, I didn't mean for over a month to go by, but I was in Italy for ten days and didn't have my laptop or any time to write. Some variation of this chapter has been in my head for a while now and it took a bit to get it the way I wanted it to be, but I hope you enjoy the finished product!
> 
> Big thanks to my beta, closer-to-monkey, who was a huge help on this gigantic chapter!!
> 
> -Em:)

Sixty-eight days later, on the seventeenth of November, 2005, Draco was once again sitting in the kitchen, nursing a glass of firewhiskey. He cradled it with care, glaring at the crystal, at his distorted reflection in it. He was on his second bottle of the night–well, of the day really. He’d started in the early afternoon. If it were up to him, well, if Hermione hadn’t stopped him from doing so, he would have been drinking since he woke up this morning. But he’d looked into those eyes, those beautiful endless eyes and given in to her whims, if only for a few hours. He barely felt the burn anymore. He was numb to it, numb to everything. But he drank anyway, he had to, he needed to, or he wouldn’t be able to handle it all. Otherwise, he’d feel too much, hurt too much and he couldn’t, he just couldn’t feel today. He couldn’t. Not today.

He looked a wreck, which was putting it kindly. His eyes were red-rimmed, from both crying and lack of sleep. The circles under his eyes were near-purple, so dark they seemed to be scarred into his skin. He’d stayed up all night the night before, a combination of insomnia and fear of falling into that same nightmare again. Where he watched it happen, again and again and again, on loop for what feels like hours. The last time it had happened, Hermione had woken him up, shaking his shoulders, straddling his hips. She was pinning down his arms, where his wand was gripped in his hand. She had said he was screaming, screaming for him, screaming for it to be over, for it to have never happened in the first place. He hadn’t been able to sleep after that, so he sat at the edge of the bed, his feet pressed against the floor until his breath had evened out. Hermione had held him as his shoulders shook, as dry sobs wracked his body, tears burning behind his eyelids. 

His blond hair looked dull, white almost, sticking up in every direction due to his incessant pulling, pulling, pulling. He’d been shaking all day as he fought to keep it all inside, to keep himself from exploding, from breaking. His skin was sallow, ashen, as he’d spent over an hour this morning vomiting the contents of his stomach until there was nothing left, save bile, into the toilet, while Hermione kept a comforting hand on his back, smoothing it up and down his spine, letting him know that she was here and that she understood. It was enough. In that moment, it meant more than words could.

Hermione. She’d known what today was before he even told her, as if it had been burned into her memory as deeply as his, as if she’d known by just looking into his eyes, seeing the sorrow, the pain, the longing, the guilt in them. She’d held him tightly last night, giving him reassurance without him asking, without suffocating him. It meant the world to him. She, though, wasn’t content to let him destroy himself, keeping him from doing anything  _ too  _ rash. He supposed that was fair, he owed her that much. 

Draco rolled his neck, groaning as the joints cracked. It burned to shut his eyes, making it harder to fight against the tears that threatened to spill. So, he drank again, swishing the amber liquid around in his mouth. His body ached, his heart ached for relief. He reached for the pack of cigarettes sitting in front of him, three already gone, and pulled one out, lighting it with his wand as he brought it to his mouth. He closed his eyes, taking a long drag, filling his lungs with smoke. He held it there, relishing in the burn of it before letting it go in a low breath through pursed lips, watching as the smoke filled the air, rising up, swirling around in a dark cloud above him. The familiar taste coated his tongue, taking on a fuzzy feeling as he took another drag. It felt warm, familiar, like a blanket of smoke wrapping around him, around his lungs, his heart. 

As much as the cigarette helped him to dull the senses, to manage it all just a little bit better, it reminded him all the same. The smell. Oh, the  _ smell _ . He hated how much he loved it, how much it made his eyes water, how it reminded him of what had happened, how the scent would cling to his best friend’s clothes, smelling just as strong as the scent of his soap, cloves and honey. He could smell it now, smell him, as he hugged him tightly on those days when he could feel the cracks forming in his facade, chipping away. It was a rare day indeed when he would hug Theo, the day either very good, or very bad. Though, he wished he’d hugged him a little longer, a little more, if it meant he could have another moment with him, another year, month, week, day, hour, minute,  _ second _ . 

Today. Today, marks five years. Five piss poor, shittastic years, filled with blood, death and war, since the day he lost hope, his faith in humanity, since the day he lost his best friend, his brother in everything but blood, since Theo had taken the curse for him, since Draco had carried his body back to the house, his corpse still slightly warm as he sobbed and sobbed. His throat tightened, a lump rising in it as he reminded himself of how he had held Theo’s body to him, his emerald eyes dull, empty, his mouth a thin line, his lips bloodless, never to smile, never to speak, to hold a cigarette, to laugh, to make another sarcastic remark. 

His skin was so pale, so, so pale in a way that Theo’s never was, in the way that only the dead’s could be. It was always a golden sort of color, not Draco’s shade of alabaster. It was so unnatural on him; he looked like a ghost of himself, a shell. But of course, that’s what he was now: a body, a cold corpse. But Draco held him anyway, held him alone in the yard, trying, and failing, to hold himself together. He’d never get the image out of his brain; it was burned there like a brand, defining him, marking him forever. He saw it every time he shut his eyes. In the end, though, he’d pried himself from his friend, from the last of the warmth that would never return, took the wand from his now-cold hands, and allowed himself to cry as he uttered the word, “ _ Incendio _ .” He’d never forget the way he’d stood there, cold and alone, hot tears dripping down his cheeks as he watched Theo’s body become encompassed by flame, enveloping him like a blanket. 

He shook the memory away with the tears, though one escaped him, dripping down his cool pale skin. He owed himself the one, owed it to Theo. He didn’t wipe it away, instead letting it roll down his cheek as he brought the cigarette to his lips, taking the smoke in deeply, letting it fill every empty inch inside him, his heart. He let another tear fall as he remembered his last conversation with Theo, the one that left a gaping hole in his heart. They’d just been released from a debrief before their next mission. Theo was particularly upset, longing for the future he’d never have, for what the war had taken away from him and all of the others they’d lost. 

_ Theo walked quickly down the hall, his steps quicker the closer he got to the front door. He pulled on it so hard, it was almost ripped off its hinges, slamming into the wall behind it. Draco followed him through it, watching as Theo tore his hand through his muddy brown hair, finally sinking to the ground in a crouch, the late autumn breeze ruffling his tee-shirt. Draco slowly approached, not wanting to alarm him, crouching down on the ground beside his friend, overlooking the orange sunset. It made it look as if the world was on fire, flame consuming everything, just as the war was–is. It was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time. It was hard to look away from, but he forced himself to look at Theo. _

_ The golden light of the sun glittered off of his tanned face, his green eyes shimmering, from tears or a trick of the light, he didn’t know. He hoped for the latter, not wanting to see his friend in so much pain. Theo said nothing, his hand groping in the pocket of his jeans. Draco knew without looking that he was searching for his cigarettes. He pulled the pack out of his pocket, holding it so tightly, as if he was afraid it would disappear. Draco wasn’t sure that Theo even noticed that he was there. _

_ He lit it up quickly, his hand shaking as he moved frantically. He got like that sometimes. When it all became too much, when he’d gone for too long without a smoke, he would claw his own skin off looking for his pack. As he brought the cigarette to his lips, he held out his other hand, still clutching at the pack, offering one to Draco. It was the first time he’d acknowledged his presence since they’d been out there, though Theo kept looking on ahead, focusing on the setting sun. Draco took one, lighting it with his wand, and bringing it to his lips, letting the familiar taste coat his tongue. He continued to watch Theo, observe his every move, to make sure that he was alright. He shut his eyes as he breathed in a particularly long drag, craning his neck so that his face was to the sky. The wind blew his hair gently, the sun leaving a golden sheen on the usually uniform brown color. Theo released the smoke from his lungs with a shaky breath, cracking his eyes open, turning to look at Draco for the first time.  _

_ His mossy green eyes were glassy, the evening light refracting in them. He eased himself onto the ground, propping his cigarette up with his lip as he adjusted, Draco doing the same. Their legs sat stretched in front of them, Draco braced his weight against one of his arms. He took the fag back into his hand, blowing the smoke into the air, watching as it fades away into the wind, blowing just enough to make Draco wish he had on a sweatshirt. “I’m going mad, Draco.” Theo said, his voice laced with desperation. “I-I feel as if, if this war doesn’t end soon, I might peel my skin off. I feel like there’s more that we could be doing and we’re not doing it. I just–” He broke off, shaking his head as he took another drag from his cigarette. Draco sat silently, smoking away the cigarette in his hand as he watched his friend.  _

_ It was silent for what felt like a while, the only sound the rustling of leaves, every second slowly breaking Draco’s resolve. He knew that if he was quiet for long enough Theo would tell him what it was that was bothering him. He always did. Finally, shaking his head once more, he looked over at Draco. His green eyes searched Draco’s silver ones, looking for  _ something _ , but without anything to go on, Draco couldn’t give him the reassurance he needed, so he stared back, offering what he could. They sat like that for a minute or so before Theo finally opened his mouth, stating quietly, “I want,” He said, looking almost embarrassed, licking his chapped lips, “I want a normal life.” His voice was barely louder than the rustling of the trees surrounding the house, but the words echoed in Draco’s brain as if Theo had shouted it into a canyon.  _

_ A normal life. Didn’t they all want that? Didn’t they all wish that this shitshow of a war was over so that they could try to pick up the pieces of their lives, try to regain some semblance of normalcy. Of course, Draco wanted that. They all did, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle it anymore. Silence killed him. It was killing him now. He wasn’t sure if he even knew what normal  _ was  _ anymore. His world, the fantasyland that he’d lived in, surrounded by false prejudices, a manor house with elves to tend to his every whim, the image of his father that he’d held on a pedestal. His mother. It was all gone now. She was gone now. Normal? No chance. He didn’t even want that anymore. He hadn’t wanted it for a long time now. No. He wanted a fresh start. He wanted a place where he could just hit the reset button, where he could forget about everything that had happened to him, to his world. _

_ “I want a  _ future _. A normal one. One where I get to grow old, where I don’t have to worry about getting killed every day, about how every conversation I have could be the last one I have. I just… I don’t want to have to sleep with my wand under my pillow for the rest of my life, or to be constantly vigilant. I want to be careless. I want to be able to be in my twenties, to be able to experience my life. I want to be able to walk around the streets of London, to be able to shop in Diagon Alley, to not have to buy my cigarettes on the black market or in some obscure muggle town.  _ Fuck,  _ I want to be able to fly a broom, to play quidditch. I don’t want to have to worry.” He said, his voice getting louder with every sentence. He huffed out a breath, clenching his jaw so hard that a muscle jumped in it. “I want a life. This isn’t living. This is barely surviving, Draco. It’s killing me. I can feel myself slipping away into someone I no longer recognize. Sometimes… I can feel the blood of the people I’ve killed on my hands, stained red for all to see. No matter how hard I try, I can’t scrub it away. It’s branded me. I can feel myself dying a little bit more every day.” He said, his voice thick, as if tears were building behind his eyes, sobs forming in his throat. Theo shook his head, swallowing hard, seemingly trying to will away the emotions that were building up inside him.  _

_ “And Daph… Draco, I haven’t seen her in years.  _ Years.  _ And I miss her so fucking much. These letters… It’s like giving a starving man a crumb.” He shook his head again, taking another drag. Letters, Draco knew, were a rarity nowadays, especially personal letters, those not pertaining to reports or missions, which were more likely to be discussed in person in case of interception by the enemy. Theo was really only allowed to contact Daphne once a fortnight, but Draco would sit with him at the kitchen table, smoking many a cigarettes, drinking many a glasses of firewhiskey, as he wrote letter after letter, night after night, stuffing as many as he could into one envelope to send to her. When a fortnight passed and he hadn’t heard from Daphne, he would pace, or drink himself into a stupor. And when the letters  _ did _ come, he would sag with visible relief, releasing breaths that Draco somehow knew that Theo didn’t know he was holding. He saw the glances Theo would give, his eyes dancing across the field, always looking for her, a twinge of worry in them, as if he were always anticipating the worst.  _

_ He was desperate. But that was what love did; it kept you sane and drove you mad, all at the same time. He spoke again as he released it, his eyes trailing the smoke as it blew away in the wind. It was rare that Theo ever spoke about Daphne. He would tell Draco a fleeting detail here and there, but not much. He kept it to himself, a secret locked close to his heart. “It’s not enough anymore. I need her, Draco. I need to see her. To hold her, to kiss her, to just know that she truly is okay, alive. I want to be able to see her, to see her smile, even if it’s a fleeting one, even if it’s faked. What I would give to look into her eyes again… Those ocean blue eyes… A letter can only tell you so much. It can only tell you what the sender wishes for you to know. She doesn’t want me to worry, I know that. I know she won’t tell me when she has nightmares, when she’s truly scared, and she’ll always,  _ always _ lie about how severe her injuries are. And it hurts, knowing that I might never know how she was really feeling, that I can’t help her because she wants to protect  _ me _. I don’t need to be protected. I can handle the truth, I prefer it, actually. The lies are so much worse. The lies leave me wondering, worrying. Not knowing is  _ so _ much worse. I’m forced to read between the lines, to try to guess, like looking for a lightswitch in the dark, to figure out what really happened. _

_ “I just love her so much. Seeing her in so much pain… Pretending to be okay for me. She shouldn’t need to lie to me. I’m the one person she  _ should  _ be able to show her vulnerable side, to share all her fears, not just her wishes. I’m not too weak so as not to be able to handle her burdens as well as my own. They’re not burdens to me, not at all. I just want to be there for her, to hold her face between my hands and just...” He trailed off, taking another drag from his cigarette, almost smoked down to the filter. After letting the smoke out in a dark cloud, he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “And tell her that it’s okay to be scared, to worry, to let go, to allow herself to cry. Because I’m scared too, I worry too. I’m scared  _ shitless _ that something’s going to happen to her. I’m more scared for her, for you, for that matter, than I am for myself.” This was yet another thing that Draco already knew, though Theo never had to tell him so. There was never a question of how much Theo cared for him, though he didn’t deserve his kindness, his love. He may be a sarcastic bastard, but Theo had a kind heart, fragile, one that Draco would protect with his life, if need be. He was different than anyone Draco had ever met. He had never known another heart like Theo’s. He felt everything so intensely, so completely. His eyes, which only Draco seemed to be able to read like a novel, often betrayed his cold expressions, lacing them with a hidden kindness, one that you only could see if you were really looking for it, if you knew it was there. Theo drew his knees up to his chest, resting his elbows on his knees, his face cradled in his hands.  _

_ “You–” Theo’s voice broke, tears shining in his eyes, glimmering like diamonds. He looked away from Draco, he always did on days like this. Theo had a hard time being vulnerable, always hiding his emotions, his worry behind a mask of indifference, of sarcasm and dark humor. Looking Draco in the eye only made it harder. “You guys are all I’ve got and–” He broke off again, swallowing hard, trying to hold back the tears that would inevitably slip down his cheek. “I can’t lose you–either of you.” His voice quieted to a whisper. “You mean too much to me.” Draco said nothing, putting out his cigarette in the dirt before reaching his arm out to lay a supporting hand on Theo’s shoulder. His grey t-shirt was sun-warmed, warming Draco’s fingers, a burning cold from the whipping wind. “You won’t lose me, I promise you.” Draco said softly, his voice even, though it took everything he had to prevent his voice from becoming thick with the precursor to tears.  _

_ “I want a future. I want a home, Draco. A real home. Not some stone cold manor where the walls are lined with portraits of cruel ancestors and the halls are filled with the echoing of my father’s screaming. I’ve never had a real home before. I guess you could call this place a home, if you wanted, but… I want a house of my own. One that I bought myself. Not bought with my father’s blood money. It doesn’t have to be very large at all. Just big enough for me to live in. Daph too. Just the two of us, somewhere quiet. Maybe Cornwall, near the water. I think it’d be nice there. I think she’d like that...” He trailed off, looking wistfully to the setting sun, to the sky, light shimmering on him like golden rain.  _

_ “Maybe… maybe, if the world is better by then, then… maybe we’d even have a family, children of our own. And they wouldn’t be raised into a world of hate, but a world of tolerance and kindness. And their upbringing would never be as mine was. Never would I utter a word of hatred or disappointment, or so much as lay a hand on them. And maybe, when the sun set, they wouldn’t be afraid of what lies in the darkness, they wouldn’t reach for their wand every time a floorboard creaked. They wouldn’t know true fear or what it’s like to watch a friend, a classmate die right before your eyes, what it’s like to murder someone.” Theo’s green eyes glassed over, a sort of haze fogging his vision, as if he were here, but at the same time he was very far away, as if he were drifting somewhere else, someplace far away from here, from the war, from the death that it left in its wake as it tore the world apart. Draco watched him, his hand still on his friend’s shoulder, the only thing holding Theo to this place, to this terrible reality. _

_ There were few things in this world that could effect him the way that Theo could when he was in a mood such as this one. It broke his heart, seeing him like this. After all the pain he suffered, Theo deserved whatever he wanted. Theo deserved the world he dreamt of, the one he wished for. The one where he would wake up to sunshine, his arms wrapped around Daphne’s slim frame, and no sound but crashing waves, the laughter of children, and the contented sighs of his love filling the salt-kissed air. He didn’t deserve to be surrounded by all this death, all this suffering. He hoped, he prayed to Merlin, that Theo would get just what he wanted, that he would be happy one day, his green eyes glowing with true joy rather than echoing with pain, with the strife that plagued him. _

_ Theo seemed to snap back into himself, into reality, shaking his head as he blinked away the last of the haze in his eyes. He grabbed at another cigarette in his pocket, lighting it swiftly with his wand. He cleared his throat, finally speaking, filling the deafening silence. “You’d be more than welcome, of course. You will always have a place, have a home with me, if you need it, regardless of what becomes of us in the future. You are my best friend, Draco, my brother. And I shall never forget it. I’m quite afraid you’re stuck with me.” He said, finally looking at Draco, silver meeting green. His eyes held a flicker of amusement so small, Draco almost didn’t see it, but it was there, hidden behind the grief, the longing, that was consuming him. Draco squeezed his best friend’s shoulder comfortingly, assuringly before responding. “Neither will I. You’re the only family I’ve got, Theo.” He said, his voice steady, but his eyes burning. _

_ Theo bowed his head, taking another long inhale from the fag. When he released it, there was a light sag to his posture that wasn’t there before, though he was still strung as tight as a bowstring. His lips parted as if he were about to say something, the first word forming on his lips as a voice, clear as day, sharp as crystal, cut through the air, calling their names. Footsteps accompanied it, rustling through the dying grass. Draco removed his hand from Theo’s shoulder as he turned to greet the voice with a nod. Aberforth spoke calmly, but his voice was filled with strength. It was the voice of a leader, a commander. “Malfoy, Nott. It’s time to go. Put that cigarette out and put your armband on. It’s supposed to be a brutal one, a lot of high profilers.” He said. _

_ So then, Draco stood, reaching a hand out to help Theo to his feet. He brushed the dirt off of his hands on his pants as Theo smoked down as much of the cigarette as he could before tossing the butt onto the ground, crushing it into the soil. When he looked up, his eyes met Draco’s, an expression that even Draco couldn’t place. It wasn’t one he’d ever seen before, but there was a fierceness in that expression, one that almost made him feel bad for whoever it was who would cross Theo tonight on the battlefield. With a nod, they turned from Aberforth, walking silently, side by side back to the house, neither of them knowing that it would be the last time they would do so, that the cigarette that Theo crushed into the earth would be his last one, that it would be the last sunset Theo would ever know, that they would never have another conversation, at least not alone, that Theo would never see Daphne again, that he wouldn’t live to attain the future, the happiness he so desired, deserved. _

Draco choked down the contents of his glass, slamming the crystal down onto the table so hard that the ashtray that sat in front of him, Theo’s ashtray, clattered against the wood. Guilt accompanied that memory almost as much as the memory of his death did, of the light leaving his eyes, as the flash of green light destroyed him. As much as he wished it didn’t, that memory was often how he remembered Theo, during that last conversation, looking out at the sunset. The golden light made his eyes shimmer a green that seemed ethereal, his hair looked a sandy color rather than its usual muddy brown. He seemed almost… angelic, in that moment. It was something he’d never seen on anyone else. It was as if the world was trying to tell him, trying to show him, that this was going to be the last time he would study his friend’s facial expressions, the last time they would smoke together, or even talk at all. 

He often dwelled on that conversation, on the things he said, the things he didn’t and the things he should have. Only recently did he come to the conclusion that he couldn’t have said anything that would have prevented what happened, that no matter what he said to Theo, he would never have gotten that future he so desired. But still, even then, after accepting that, there was still a pit in his stomach, a hole in his heart that would never be filled. He should have told him how much he cared about him, how much he needed him, to tell him that he was one of the few things keeping him sane, that he couldn’t stand to lose him, that living in a world without the only family he had left… It was hell. That, if it weren’t for Hermione, he would have lost his mind in grief, in ‘what ifs’. He wished that now he could tell him that he missed him, that he wished he were still here, with him, but at the same time, he hoped that he was someplace better than here, than this world. 

He took another drag of the cigarette, tapping off the ash into the ashtray sitting in front of him, Theo’s ashtray, before taking in the smoke. He looked through bleary eyes at the smoke in the ash pile, rising from the tray in dark tendrils. He  _ should _ be fighting right now. He  _ should  _ be on the battlefield, killing the people who killed Theo, who murdered so, so many good people, but instead, he was sitting here, his face in a bottle of whiskey, struggling to force the lump in his throat to stay down. He’d wanted to go, wanted to fight, but Aberforth, and Hermione had agreed, that Draco was too unstable, too impulsive, and too intoxicated to send out tonight. He’d fought against the decision, yelling at Aberforth, actually throwing a plate at the living room wall, shattering it. But, of course, that just proved his point. 

As much as he hated to admit it, they were right. He wasn’t fit to fight. He probably would have gotten himself killed. He was drunk and sloppy, upset and impulsive. It took Hermione a considerable amount of time to get him to come around to it, a lot of promises and gentle coaxing. She’d held him, her fingers winding lovingly around the soft locks of his hair in the way she’d known would calm him down enough to see reason.

Hermione hadn’t wanted to go tonight, hadn’t wanted to leave him on a night where she knew that he was a danger to himself. She’d wanted to stay with him, to just be there, if nothing else. She’d told him as much. But, they’d needed her. Without Draco in the fight, she was their strongest fighter. She couldn’t sit out the fight just to be with him. She was too important. In a way, he was glad she wouldn’t have to sit by him while he was at his worst. But it also worried him, knowing that she was out there. He knew she could handle herself. She was more than capable, but he still worried. He let himself care, and when he cared about someone, it was bone deep. He hadn’t said goodbye, he couldn’t bring himself to, it was like accepting that something would happen, and he couldn’t handle that. Not tonight. But he’d kissed her longer, nuzzled his pallid face into her shoulder, taking in that scent he had come to associate with home, with comfort. Strawberries and vanilla. It clung to her skin, to his pillows, his blankets, sometimes even to him. It was a scent specific to her, a lovely sweet scent that he could lose himself in. He had long ago memorized that scent. 

When he had lifted his head from her shoulder, he pressed one last kiss to her temple, murmuring against her skin, “Come back to me.” His voice had broken as he spoke, from hours of screaming himself hoarse, but his need was all too present in the way he spoke. She had turned her head, to face him, looking into his desperate silver eyes, filled with sorrow, with her wide brown opals. She lifted a hand to his face, brushing the blond fringe out of his eyes before allowing her hand to come to rest at his cheek. Her hand felt warm under his too-cold skin. He leaned into it unconsciously, shutting his eyes, allowing himself to relish in the feeling. She had answered him softly, promise in her voice, his eyes flicking open to watch her expression. In her eyes, there was a flicker of something else, something he couldn’t place, but it seemed to echo in her expression, something horribly sad, but terribly beautiful. “Always.” She had said, her voice steady. It was still fresh in his ears, his brain, the assurance there. His heart had clenched, had yearned for her as she pulled her hand away from him, giving him a half-hearted smile. His skin, for the first and only time today, had felt alive under her touch, as if she had ignited a spark, one that had gone away the moment her hand fell away. She had left moments after, saying nothing else to him, as there was nothing left for either of them to say. He had stood there, watching the spot she had disappeared from, his tumbler to his lips, drinking away the liquor. 

Though, he wasn’t completely alone tonight. He wasn’t the only one who had stayed home. It was yet another reason why Hermione couldn’t stay home with him. They were down not one, but two fighters. Of course, it was the one person, the absolute only person he did not want to talk to or even be in the same room, same house with tonight. It just made it all worse, made the guilt come back full force. It was only Draco’s luck that she had broken her wand arm the night before in battle. Before Hermione had left, she had asked him if he would be okay with just her in the house and he had lied, telling her that he would be fine, that it would be fine, but of course it wasn’t. It made him sick to even think about her, but knowing she was in the same house as him, let alone just the two of them… It was almost too much to bear. He had hoped that she would keep her distance from him, just stay away, locked in her room and leave him to his grieving, but the world couldn’t just leave well enough alone because, of course, he could hear her footsteps, hear them approaching the kitchen, getting louder, closer with each step. So, Draco poured himself another drink. 

And there she was, Daphne Greengrass. Of course she was. Draco’s stomach churned at the sight of her. She stood against the door frame in a too familiar way, looking too broken for comfort. It reminded him of another girl, another night, another destroyed soul. For a moment, he stopped remembering to breathe. The sight of her, her blue eyes watery, as red-rimmed as his probably were, was enough to make him down his whole glass and pour another without so much as looking at the bottle he had his hand wrapped around. His guilt was eating him alive, bit by bit by bit. Her broken arm was wrapped, tucked into her abdomen, fist clenched. Her blonde hair was damp, as if she had just showered and the bags under her eyes were dark enough to look like bruising. Her cheeks were blotchy, a cherry red too bright to be natural. 

Draco looked away from her, no longer able to manage seeing her like this. His best friend’s love. He took one last drag of his cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray. He spoke as the smoke left him, his voice as good a drawl as he could force,  “Lovely seeing you, Daphne, but I would very much like to be alone, so if you could just–” She cut him off, taking a step into the room. “Oh, cut the bullshit, Draco.” She said, her voice hoarse, as if she hadn’t spoken for a long time. And, he supposed, she hadn’t. He hadn’t so much as heard her voice all day. If he was being honest, she sounded a bit off-kilter, drunk, perhaps. 

Draco’s eyes were wide. Though Daphne was his fellow Slytherin, she didn’t often let that side show when she wasn’t on the battlefield. She was usually gentle with a wicked sense of humor, not quippy and borderline snappish. “Pardon?” He asked, eyebrows raised, but still not looking at her. Instead, he allowed his index finger to dance around the edge of his glass, looking at his bleak reflection in the amber liquid within. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see the blonde figure take a few steps toward him. “You heard me.” She said, before sinking into the chair next to him: Hermione’s chair. 

Daphne then did something that shocked him enough to get him to turn his head to look into those big blue sorrowful eyes. She reached over just as Draco was moving to grab his glass, and took it, bringing it to her lips. She drank down the whole thing, slamming the glass back onto the table. At the sound, Draco whipped his head around to look at her. She looked a wreck, though, perhaps, not as noticable of a wreck as Draco looked. Her uninjured hand was shaking as it lay on the table. “Of  _ course _ you can have some of  _ my  _ whiskey. Go right ahead, Daph, help yourself.” He said, gesturing to the bottle sitting in front of him before rolling his eyes. Daphne, instead, reaches inside of Draco’s pack of cigarettes and pulls one out, lighting it with her wand. She balances it between her delicate fingers, like an extension of her hand. Her nails were bitten down to the beds, near-bleeding.

Draco turned away from her, only huffing a breath before refilling his glass, reclaiming it as he brought it to his lips. He listened as Daphne took a stiff inhale, tapping off the ash from the tip of the fag, allowing it to dust the table like a fine snow. She was silent for a moment, so silent, that Draco glaced his eyes toward her. It was then that she broke the silence. “Stop pretending like you’re the only one who’s grieving. The martyr look doesn’t suit you, Draco. It never has.” She said, her voice seeming very far away. She then leaned forward, resting her head in the heel of the hand that held her–no–Draco’s cigarette. Her bloodshot eyes were staring straight ahead, looking at the wall, but not really seeing it. 

She took a long drag, allowing the smoke only to escape from a small part between her lips, blowing it through the small hole. “Pardon?” Draco asked again, finishing off the last of the bitter substance in his glass, immediately topping it off, almost to the brim. “You’re not the only one grieving him, Draco, so stop acting like it. You’re not the only one who cared about him. I cared–I still care–I’ll always care.” She said, her voice still seeming numb to the world, even, but empty, even as she struggled to get the words out. “I know you care, Daph. I’m not daft.” He said, his voice impassive as he fumbled to light another cigarette. “Do you?” She asked absently, still staring straight ahead at the wall. 

Not knowing what to say, Draco sat there quietly, hoping, praying to whatever entity might answer that she would just get up and leave. He felt tense just having her in the room. It made everything shift, amplifying his guilt, his sorrow, his pain. It felt as if he were in a room in which the walls were closing in on him, boxing him in, slowly crushing him. The silence, though, was almost as deafening, as difficult as the sound of Daphne’s voice. It was taking all his restraint not to make noise, to throw his glass, shatter something, destroy something, to break something,  _ anything,  _ in a desperate attempt to convey at least  _ some  _ of how he felt. He wished to break the silence, to scream, to cry, to make any and all noise to keep him from succumbing to his thoughts, but he restrained himself, the silence remaining, ringing in his eardrums like a rattling tune, an almost painful one. 

Draco immediately regretted wishing for the silence to end once Daphne spoke again. To him, her voice, broken and ragged, felt like shards of glass to the chest, piercing the skin, piercing his heart. “Do you  _ really _ ?” She asked, lifting her head from her hand, turning to face him. Her crystal blue eyes were narrowed accusingly, her jaw set, but quivering despite itself. “Because, Draco,” She began, every word like a blade cutting into him, slow and deliberately painful. “If you had even the slightest clue of how much I cared, how much I loved him, how much I  _ still  _ love him–” Her voice broke off, cracking slightly. When she spoke again, she was just louder than a whisper, so quiet, that over the noise of his mind, he could barely hear her. “I will always love him. Despite what you seem to think.” She took one last inhale from her cigarette, taking in the smoke until it seemed that her lungs would hold no more. She then put it out in the ashtray, looking at it as if she were trying to place it, but couldn’t. He didn’t have the heart or the strength to tell her that it belonged to Theo.

“I’m well aware that you—” He began, but she cut him off before he could even make his point, whatever that was. “No, you obviously don’t.” She said, pushing her chair out and standing, her arms carefully folded so as not to harm her already injured arm. Her brows were furrowed, her lips pursed as she stared at Draco. There seemed to be raging blue flames behind those eyes, burning brightly. “Because,” She said, her voice had an edge to it, “Because if you did…” She shook her head, trailing off once more as she turned away from Draco, but not leaving, much to his dismay. She walked to the window, looking out onto the dark landscape. Though Daphne didn’t know it, the spot she was looking at, was the spot in which he had had that last conversation with Theo about his hope for the future, the hope that would be burned out of him only hours later as his life left his body. 

Draco had already drank another full glass of firewhiskey by the time Daphne made another noise. It was an exhale, a harsh one, as if she were arguing with herself about something. It caused the window to fog up with a hint of condensation that would soon fade. “If you knew, if you were truly aware of how much he meant–means to me, you,  _ you,  _ Draco, would have been the one to tell me that he had been killed.” Her voice was quiet, her voice crescendoing as she spoke. Daphne was still facing the window, her body as still as the world outside, encased in darkness. She huffed a breath that sounded like a dark, disgusted laugh. She then turned around to face him, a hurt expression darkened with ire stretched across her face. Despite it, she looked so tired, as if, if she could manage it, she would curl into the covers of her bed and sleep forever. “Do you  _ know _ how I found out that he was dead?” She asked, her eyebrows raised high on her face, not waiting for an answer before plunging back into her speech, “I didn’t know that he was dead for  _ three fucking weeks _ , Draco. Three weeks. I waited and waited for a letter from him a week and a half, one that never came. When the mail came in every day, I stood outside, waiting for that owl, waiting for the familiar handwriting, the beautiful cursive lettering of my name. No one ever quite wrote it like he did. He made it look so beautiful, so special. As if no other name in the world was as precious. 

“But… There was no letter. Not one addressed to me, not from Theo, not even from you. He  _ never _ ,  _ ever _ missed a single letter. He was always prompt, never an hour, no less, a week late. That was when I began to worry… That was only five days after it had happened. I still didn’t know. So I waited and waited and waited, like a damned fool, hoping, praying, with every fibre of my being that that letter would arrive. I was a wreck for days on end, paranoid as my brain searched for all the possible reasons as to why he didn’t reply. The excuses ranged from being too busy to being horribly injured to me having done something to offend him. But… I never let myself even think, not for a moment, that he could have been dead. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. After what happened to Astoria, I pushed all thoughts of death from my mind regarding Theo. I couldn’t bear the thought of it. It just seemed… implausible. As if… as if it were a given that after all we endured, together and alone, we would be rewarded, that we would survive this war,  _ together. _ ” A lone tear struggled its way down Daphne’s pink cheek, her sapphire eyes glowing.

Her voice broke as she seemed to fade into herself, into the memory of when she had found out. “I found out three weeks later. Theo… My Theo had been dead for three  _ fucking  _ weeks. When you love someone that much, you expect to have known if something had happened, to have felt  _ something _ , that indicated that the person you care most for is gone, dead… But… I didn’t feel a damned thing. Not a pinch nor paper cut. I hadn’t a fucking clue.” She paused, wiping away the tears that flowed down her cheeks in rivers of sorrow, just now realizing that she had been crying. “I–I  _ finally  _ found out that he had died, that my Theo was gone, through the  _ damned casualty reports _ !” Her voice was raised, not quite a shout, yet louder than strictly necessary. She hugged her arms against herself, shutting her eyes so tight that she was shaking. A hard sob, one she had been suppressing, wracked her body with a force that nearly knocked her to her knees. Draco wasn’t sure what to do or say to make it any better. He couldn’t even make himself feel better. That was why he was drinking. 

When she spoke again, her eyes cracking open, a brilliantly sad blue, her voice was no louder than a croak, “Do you know what it’s like to find out that the one you love had died, not from a letter or face to face meeting, but from an  _ official report? _ ” She sneered the words as if they were poison, her nose scrunching up. Draco had long since put down his glass, the empty crystal sitting on the table, half-forgotten. Guilt was spreading through him like a disease, taking precedence over all of the other awful, horrible emotions he was feeling in that moment. He should have sent a note, sent some sort of word forward to her. He had been too selfish, as he had been the night Theo was killed, only thinking of himself, not of how his decisions, his actions or lack thereof, might affect others. He had never even thought of how she had found out, but this,  _ this,  _ he never expected. It was his fault. “No,” He said, his voice no louder than a whisper. “No, I don’t.” He wasn’t even quite sure if Daphne had heard him, as she kept on speaking, as if he hadn’t replied. “It was such a cold piece of parchment, a list, as if they were only names, only words, not people, not human beings who gave their lives for this cause. They had to strap me down to my bed and give me a dreamless sleep potion and calming draught just to get me to stop screaming, stop crying.

“I know you were grieving, Draco. Trust me, I know. But… Would it have been too much effort to send me a  _ single _ letter? Merlin knows it would have hurt less, if only a little bit, as nothing could have taken away the pain I felt that day. It was like a knife to the chest, a full-force cruciatus.” She paused, and Draco opened his mouth to speak, though he wasn’t sure if there was anything he could have said to placate her. As if sensing this, Daphne continued to speak. “What if it were Hermione?” Draco froze, staring at her, his eyebrows furrowed deeply. It felt like a curse shot directly to his heart, a knife buried in his chest. All of the air had gone from his lungs and it had suddenly become hard to breathe. 

He tightened his fist and forced himself to take a breath through clenched teeth, lest his emotions betray him. “What about Hermione?” He exhaled, forcing his words to be even, steady, though he yearned to yell, to practically growl the words at her. Daphne simply stared, her eyes wide and filled with tears. “What if it were her name on one of those lists? Just a name written on a line, a statistic, an insignificant number among hundreds, just another one of the fallen. You would want to know, you would want to have heard from someone who cared, who loved her, someone like Potter, rather than from a  _ report  _ or from someone who couldn’t give less of a shit about her. It makes a difference.” She said softly, her voice quieter, as if she had lost the will to yell.

Draco uttered the only words he could possibly offer, though he knew it was much too late for them and they were nothing but empty words after all these years. “I’m sorry, Daph. I never meant–” He stopped, shaking his head, “I never meant to hurt you. I should have been the one to tell you. I was so caught up in my own head, so fucked up and selfish, I wasn’t even thinking about it. I never think things over when it really matters. What happened to Theo is a prime example of that. And I’m so fucking sorry, Daphne. I know it’s five years too late for that, which I’m also sorry about.  _ Fuck, _ ” He tore his hand through his hair, looking down at the cracked tile. He lit up another cigarette, shutting his eyes as he brought it to his lips.

After exhaling the smoke, he brought his eyes up to see Daphne watching him. His hand rested on the table, the cigarette leaning lightly against the ashtray. “I miss him, Daph.” He said, so quietly he wasn’t quite sure if she even heard him. The lump in his throat was becoming ever more present, making it harder to swallow. In response, he took another long drink, wanting more than anything to make it go away. “I know you do,” She said softly, her voice laced with sorrow. “I miss him too, more and more every day.” She smiled a watery smile to herself, gazing back down at the floor. Draco took another drag of his cigarette, gazing through bleary eyes at the worn wood of the kitchen table as he spoke, “Whoever said that time heals wounds was a sodding liar,” He dug his fingernail into one of the chips in the wood, focusing in on it, not letting himself remember that Daphne was here, that he was telling her this. “Because, after  _ five fucking years now _ , it still feels like Potter hit me with that sectumsempra all over again when I think of him, how he’s gone, how empty his eyes looked, the pain so intense it steals my breath away. It’s a fucking lie. It still feels as fresh as the day it happened and I don’t think that will ever change. The longer I go on without him, the deeper the wound gets, slowly, painfully, agonizingly, puncturing my heart as swiftly as a blade.” His fringe hung over his eyes as he studied the table as if it were the most interesting thing he had ever looked upon as he spoke.

Daphne sniffled, a tear drifting down her face, though she didn’t bother to wipe it away. She was quiet for awhile before she replied. Draco was just about sure she wasn’t going to say anything. “Sometimes,” She began, her voice thick with her impending tears. “I wake up, and I can’t remember what his voice sounded like, what exact color green his eyes were, the color of moss, of an emerald glowing in afternoon light. Sometimes, I forget how he looked when he smiled, how bright it was, how he managed to have an elegant, practiced smile that was also carefree or the way his eyes lit up when he smiled that smile. Other days, I can’t remember what his laugh, his beautiful laugh, sounded like, how it was music to my ears, a symphony that I felt privileged to know.” Daphne looked out the window, pushing her hair behind her ear as she sniffled once more, wiping away some of the tears on her face. “Sometimes, I forget the way his hand, his slender fingers, contrasted by his calloused palms, felt in mine. I forget the way he used to hold me close to him, the way his arms felt wrapped around me. I forget the exact way he smelled, some combination of cigarettes and cloves, offset by the sweetness of honey. Sometimes–” She broke off, sucking in a low breath as she tried to suppress a sob that was clearly creeping upon her. “Sometimes,” She said, her voice lower, softer than before, “I can’t remember how it felt when he kissed me, the way his lips, always soft, moved in tandem with mine. I can remember the rush, the ethereal feeling of it, but some days, the memory of it, of him, is slowly drifting away from me and there’s nothing I can do about. And… And it’s  _ killing _ me.”  

Her hand, the one that wasn’t wrapped in a temporary cast, was clenched in a fist over her heart, gripping the fabric of her jumper, twining it between her fingers. She seemed to be shivering, though whether it was from the cold or not, he didn’t know. It was then that Draco offered something to her before he even truly realized what it was he was saying. He threw back another glass, the liquid burning his throat ever so slightly as it went down. “I still have everything of his, Theo’s, that is, if you want to look through it. His letters, the ones you wrote, the ones he–he never got to send, they’re probably still in his trunk.” Draco shook his head profusely as Daphne’s eyes went wide. “I never read them.” He said quickly, shaking it off as he forced himself to continue what he started. “If you, um,” He paused, his heartbeat pounding in his ear like a steady drumbeat. “If you want, you can, um, take a few t-shirts or, um, other things of his,” Daphne made a soft choking noise and Draco put down his cigarette, and just in time.

Daphne approached so quickly, that he didn’t notice what was happening until Daphne’s arms wrapped around him, tight as a vice, desperate. Her body was slightly cold to the touch, as if she had just showered, her skin retaining a cool damp feel to it. “Thank you.” She breathed. He didn’t realize she was crying until he felt the wet material of his shirt brush his collarbone. As she pulled away from him, her eyes fixed on the ashtray that sat there, the smoke that was rising from Draco’s newly abandoned fag, recognition dawning in her blue eyes. “That’s his, isn’t it?” She asked, moving her broken arm in against her body once more. Looking past her head, to the countertop, to anywhere but the ashtray, he nodded, finding himself wanting to cry. 

Daphne stared absently at the ashtray herself for a moment, seemingly remembering, before nodding her head as well. She heaved a sigh, wiping away all trace of her tears away from her eyes. “He loved you so much, Draco. I could hear it in the way he spoke about you in his letters. There’s not one that didn’t mention your name. I just…” She paused, her eyes drifting to the floor. “I thought you should know that.” She spoke quietly, gently. Draco swallowed hard, his eyes burning with the precursor to tears. “I know, Daph, I know. I loved—love him too. So much. He was my family.” 

Draco allowed them to stay there in tense silence for a few moments, unsure of what he could possibly say to her that could make it up to her. He thought about telling her of what Theo had last said to him, of what he had hoped to do, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. It felt too personal to him, too private. Those were the last words Theo had spoken to him, they felt too intimate to utter aloud. It might have been selfish of him not to tell Daphne, but the words couldn’t find purchase. And if he was being honest, he wanted to keep this last thing, this last memory–from the way Theo’s lithe form sat in the grass looking onto the future he’d never get, to the way the sunset reflected in his eyes, setting the earthy tones on fire, to the smell of smoke that blew through the autumn air–to himself. As silly as it sounded, he needed it, needed that moment to stay his, and his alone. It was the last piece of him that he had; he couldn’t give that up. 

So instead, he said nothing, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, studying it, before bringing it to his lips and drinking it down. He welcomed the burn like an old friend, which, in a way, he supposed it was. He had nothing left to say to her, but didn’t have it in him to dismiss her, not today. He let her stand there and light up another cigarette, her arm curled into her body protectively. The silence that hung over them felt like a heavy fog, making each breath harder to take. With each passing second, Draco could feel his composure slipping, his hands shaking, his breaths uneven. 

The feeling of guilt, sorrow, agony, Daphne’s insistent presence, all looming over him, making it hard to focus, hard not to just break down right here. He clenched his tumbler so hard his fingertips turned white, his eyes unable to focus anywhere other than on the pack of cigarettes that lie on the table, lest he catch a glimpse of Daphne’s golden hair, her usually-vibrant, but now sullen, blue eyes. Because if he did, he might lose control, as he did this morning, and this time, Hermione wasn’t here to calm him down. All of his efforts were going into blocking out the soft sniffles coming from Daphne as she allowed herself to cry. 

It stayed like that for a while, Draco doing everything in his power not to break down right here, to hold on for a little longer, choking back more whiskey and smoking through three more cigarettes, while Daphne stood there beside his chair, dead to the world, crying as she stared out the window. She smoked and smoked and smoked. He wasn’t sure if it was something she normally did when she was stressed out or if it was because it reminded her of Theo. Either way, the haze of smoke hung around the room like gloom on a rainy day. It burned to blink, a combination of the smoke-filled air and the fact that he was fighting off the tears that threatened the fall. Each breath felt as if there was a weight on his chest, pressing down as he tried to suck in air. So he drank more, hoping that, by the time he finished this bottle, he might be too drunk to notice.

After what felt like hours, but he could never be quite sure how long it was, Draco could hear voices begin to sound outside. Some of them quiet, others shouting, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to get out of his chair, or even look out the window. None of the shouting sounded too serious, nothing too desperate or dire. So he didn’t move and neither did Daphne, for that matter. He didn’t speak either, knowing that if he did, his voice would be thick with tears. He leaned forward on his elbows, resting his head in his hands, his silver eyes trained on his lap. He pulled on his platinum locks from the root, hard enough to feel pain, just to know that he could feel something other than this crushing sensation inside him, as if his sanity was crumbling down around him. He blinked slow and long, counting each one, trying to put his mind somewhere else, somewhere away from here, from Daphne, from Theo, from this day, from this house, from this war and all it took from him and those around him. 

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, whether it was five or fifteen or thirty, he didn’t know, that he heard harsh breathing coming from the doorway, as if someone was trying to catch their breath after a long run. He saw Daphne’s head turn toward the noise slowly, her blue eyes glowing in his peripheral vision. “Oh.” Her voice said, sounding somewhere very far away. Draco kept his eyes trained down in his lap, taking slow breaths, even breaths. She blinked a few times before leaning forward, over Draco to the ashtray, putting out her cigarette. She looked at it longingly, biting her bottom lip before turning away. Draco listened to her retreating footsteps, which stopped a moment later. “Um, thanks for the smoke and, well, talking, I guess.” Draco nodded his assent as her footsteps resumed, going somewhere he was glad he wasn’t. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, he did, it was just… too much, especially today.

Once he could no longer feel her presence, Draco let out a long breath, letting a small amount of the crushing weight slip off of him. He closed his eyes, momentarily forgetting about the person who had been standing in the doorway, their breath now evened out, but still labored enough for him to note. He couldn’t forget for long though, as he felt a warm and familiar hand on the back of his neck. He leant into it, his breath hitching. “Draco,” Hermione said, her fingers dancing along his nape, soothingly playing with his unbrushed hair. The warmth from her fingers radiated along his seemingly-eternally cold skin. “I’m here.” Her voice was hoarse, probably from barking orders around the field. Relief washed over him at the sound of her voice, one so great it scared him. At her presence, her touch, her voice, some of the tension in Draco’s shoulders gave way. It became just a little easier to breathe. He lifted his head from where he had rested it against his hands and, without even having to look, he pulled her in by the waist, burying his head in her shirt, taking in her scent. The familiarity of it, the comfort it brought him, was enough to make his eyes water. Hermione wrapped her other arm around Draco’s shoulders, her right hand remaining in his hair, twirling it around her fingers. She pressed a long kiss to the top of his head, one that echoed throughout his whole body. She was alive. She was here and she was holding him. She was not yet lost to the war. Not, as Daphne had put it, another name on a list of casualties, a statistic. She was warm and smelled of strawberries, vanilla, sweat and of that scent that he was never able to place, the scent that was specific to her. 

As much as he wanted to stay there like that forever, holding her, Draco finally let go, looking up so that he could see her. His eyes searched her frantically for any signs of wounds, but she seemed to be okay, safe, alive, despite a slash on the left side of her throat. His eyes went right to it like a magnet, furrowing his brow. Hermione’s hand slid through his hair, moving to cup his cheek. “It’s just a graze wound, don’t worry. It barely even hurts, honest.” She said, her eyes travelling across the details of his face as she spoke. “I took down the person who did it. It was a newbie; they’re always reckless, but they’re also careless. He left his right side wide open.” She offered him a small smile, her brow furrowed in worry. He forced his lip to quirk a little bit, if only to humor her. 

Draco raised his hand to graze the slice, no longer bleeding, but still fresh enough that it hadn’t scabbed over yet. Hermione shuddered as his fingers gently scraped across the wound. He raised his eyes to her wide golden brown ones apologetically. “Let me heal it.” Draco rasped, his voice still thick. For a moment, Hermione hesitated and, if it was any other night, he’d be offended, but tonight, his magic was as unpredictable as his temper. “I promise I can do it.” He insisted, pulling out the chair next to him,  _ her _ chair. She removed her hand from his cheek, her fingertips brushing the skin, flushed, before dropping it to her side. The absence of her touch was missed sorely, though it seemed that it was imprinted into his skin, a warm tattoo, the heat echoing throughout his body. Hermione nodded, licking her lips before sitting down. She eyed all the cigarettes in the ashtray, still smoking, as she did. He knew she wasn’t particularly fond of the smoking, the fuzzy feeling in her mouth, the light feeling in her head, but she said nothing, knowing that tonight, he needed it. 

Draco picked up his wand, turning in his chair so that his knee was in between Hermione’s legs. He gently pushed back her tangled mane of chestnut hair so that he could see the wound. He trained his focus on it, more focus than he would normally need, given his state and the amount of alcohol he’d consumed tonight. He could feel Hermione’s gentle gaze on him, watching. “Episkey.” He whispered, then pulled his wand back so that he could watch new skin knit over where the gash was. When it was done, all that was left was a faint pink line. Hermione moved her hand to touch it, just barely grazing the sensitive new skin.

Draco picked up his glass, swallowing the contents in one go, placing it down gently beside the bottle. Draco took the moment to take in Hermione’s state. Her cheeks were flush, a deep pink with windburn, the spattering of freckles on her nose ever so present. Her hair was a mess, the brown curls in knotted disarray, half-falling out of the braid she had put it in before she left. Her lips were chapped, her bottom one especially, as she must have been worrying it again. Her eyes were glassy, an expression he couldn’t quite place reflecting within them.

She finally broke the comfortable, but heavy silence a few moments later. “Is Daphne okay? She seemed a bit…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes glanced to the doorway, where Daphne had last been. After Alicia had died, Draco had told Hermione about Daphne, what she was to Theo and all she had lost to this war. Hermione moved her chair closer to his so that their legs were touching. She reached over and took his hand, which had previously been lying limp on the table. She intertwined their fingers brushing the soft pad of her thumb across his rough knuckles. Draco shrugged, dropping his eyes to the edge of the table, “She will be, but…” He drifted off, shaking his head, remembering what Daphne had said to him, yelled at him. 

“It’s hard, especially on days like these, I just–” He paused, clearing his throat. “She started talking to me, well, yelling at me and I…” He shook his head, feeling the swell of tears begin to gather within him, but he kept talking. “I didn’t even know what to say, what to tell her. I don’t even know what to tell myself. I miss him too. I love him too. I’m a fucking disaster on my own, Hermione, one of those muggle bombs, ready to explode. Having her right here,” He said, gesturing to the room, to the air around him, “It made me feel like someone laid a boulder on my chest, as if someone were crushing my lungs. I can’t bear her weight and mine. I just can’t.” He took a cold sharp inhale, squeezing Hermione’s hand ever so slightly, reminding himself that she was here, that she was listening.

“I don’t know what to tell her. What do you say to someone who lost the love of their life because they gave up their life for yours? I’m the reason she’ll never have a future with him, the reason that Theo will never live in his house by the ocean with Daphne and have beautiful children and be happy together. How do you tell someone who has lost everything that it’s going to be okay?” He looked up to meet Hermione’s eyes, finding the chocolate brown lined with silver. She lifted her other hand, the one that wasn’t holding his own, to brush her fingertips against his cheekbone, to push his greasy, unbrushed fringe out of his eyes. The gesture was gentle, careful, as if she were scared he would break. Her hand trailed down to cup his jaw, her thumb moving in soothing strokes across his face.

Draco’s eyes were fixed on the table, on his temporarily abandoned glass. He forced a breath from his lungs, sucking in a tapered one. “Draco,” Hermione said, her voice cutting through the brutal silence like a knife. “You are not a disaster. You’re human and that’s not a bad thing, not at all. It’s a very good thing, in fact. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be here with you. You’d be on the other side of the war, where the monsters reside. You’d be alongside your father, your aunt and that noseless prick, killing me, killing everyone and everything good in this world.” Draco flinched at the mention of his father, swallowing hard. “But you, Draco Malfoy, are not a monster. So you feel. You feel everything so intensely that it hurts. But it’s a good thing. It means you loved and you still love. You’re allowed to mourn. Feeling too much is always better than feeling nothing at all. To feel is to be human, no matter how often it feels like a punishment, rather than a gift.” Draco allowed her words to sink into his skin, to wrap around him like a blanket. 

“And Daphne?” She said, pausing, a shrug rolling off her shoulders. She squeezed his hand, “She’s human too. She feels just as you do, as I do. I know that having her around is a reminder to you. I know that every time you look at her, you see him, what they could have been, what he could have been. But that’s not her fault. She means no harm. She’s grieving just as you are. All the same, she doesn’t see all the shit you’ve gone through with this. She wasn’t there when Theo first died, when you wouldn’t come out of your room. She wasn’t there last night in the bathroom as you threw up last night’s dinner. She didn’t see the look on your face after you had killed that one boy, the boy you thought was him. She doesn’t see that side of you as I do. ” Hermione audibly licked her lips. “And you,” She said, pressing her hand a touch harder against his face. “You owe her nothing, no explanation. Because, Draco, it’s not your fault that he’s gone and no matter how badly you want to take responsibility for her pain, you can’t. It’s her burden to bear, not yours. You have so much in this beautiful brain of yours,” She tapped his temple playfully. “In this secretly kind heart of yours,” She brought her hand to his chest and splayed her fingers over his heart and let it rest against it, feeling it beat steadily beneath her fingertips. 

Draco looked up at her when she didn’t finish her sentence, forcing himself to meet her eyes. Her brown eyes were sparkling with tears, though not a single one fell down her cheek. She was watching him, studying him as if she was seeing him for the first time and he couldn’t figure out whether that scared him or not. Downing the glass that was sat on the table, Draco extended his arm out and with two fingers, he took her chin in his hand. He lifted her face so that her gaze met his. Despite all the pain, the grief he was feeling, in that moment, Draco couldn’t help but remark how beautiful she looked. Her hair was falling out of her braid, she had dried blood on her neck, her clothes were covered in dirt and blood and she had a smear of dirt on her still-flush cheekbone, but… somehow she still managed to look ethereal. Her chapped lips were parted, as if she were trying to speak, but no words would come. Her eyes were sparkling like endless pools, flecks of gold dancing within them in the flickering light. 

Hermione fisted the hand she had over his heart into the material of his shirt, twisting it within her fingers. Her eyes darted down to Draco’s lips before pulling him closer so that their foreheads rested against each other. He could feel her warm breath against his cheek coming in small, steady puffs. Draco released her chin, letting his hand slide to the back of her neck. Hermione leaned in an infinitesimal amount, just so that her lips brushed his. She closed her eyes, her dark lashes brushing her cheekbones. Against her skin, they looked like ebony silk, long and delicate, like dark shadows against her paleness.

Draco allowed his eyes to flutter closed, taking one last look at her like this as he did. His eyes burned as he shut them, the tears still threatening to come, but he willed them away. He wouldn’t be so weak as to cry while he kissed her. He was vulnerable enough around her as it was. So he brought his lips to hers, slowly, willing back his strong desire to hold her close and hard, to take her in a desperate manner, to show her in every way how it is he’s feeling, how his hands are shaking, his stomach turning, mind reeling. No, he wouldn’t do such a thing. So instead, he kissed her gently, held himself back, let her chase his kiss.

She pulled him closer, Draco’s gentle dance seemingly not enough, but Draco was determined to keep the kiss gentle for once. He pulled back, but teased her sealed lips with a flick of his tongue. She let out a soft sigh, her lips parting for him. If it was anything more, he was sure he would break down. He was already feeling too much for him to handle. As much as Hermione can protest that he isn’t a bomb, he could stake his life on the fact that he was. 

He slid his hand into the errant curls, the ones not still locked in her braid, feeling the softness of them between his fingers. He twirled them around his fingers, the perfect ringlets, encased in frizz and mud and possibly blood, but he didn’t care. It was her hair. She was here, she was alive and she was kissing him. Her other hand came up to his nape, fingertips carefully dancing over his collarbone, effectively causing him to shiver under her touch. The sensation of her was overwhelming, beautifully so, but overwhelming nonetheless. The whole day, he had been numb to touch, to the sensation of anything else but pain. But this, it was like he had been seeing in black and white, only to regain a few colors.

When they parted, their foreheads rest against each other, their heavy breaths mingling in the air around them. Hermione’s hand moved to rest against the back of his neck, a mirror image of the way his hand was on her. Her lips were parted so deliciously that he wanted to kiss her again, to taste her again, but he didn’t move. Instead, just looked at her, looked at her eyes, the way her breath caught when he looked at her a certain way or when they made eye contact. He watched her stunning eyes, the beautiful way the light captured them, the way they managed to make him forget about anything else. He’d never seen anything else quite like her eyes.

“Draco,” Hermione breathed, lifting her eyes to his. He looked right back, assuring her that he was listening without uttering the words. For a moment, she seemed unable to speak, to complete her sentence, her lips parted, but she managed to gather her wits. “You are, so beautiful.” She said, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes danced across his face, her fingers playing with his hair. He gave her a small smile, not agreeing with her, as, he probably looks almost as bad as he did during their sixth year. “Hermione, I look like I haven’t showered for days.” He said, huffing a laugh. She smiled, closing her eyes as she chuckled. “Well, you still look beautiful to me, even if you smell rotten. Sweat, smoke and whiskey aren’t a great combination. Though a bar in the back corner of Knockturn Alley might disagree.” She said. Draco laughed then, it bubbled up out of his lips as he pressed her forehead against his harder. “You’re probably right, though, you smell like sweat as well.” He threw back, her smile widening, probably just at the prospect of him joking, smiling, laughing. “Well, I was just on a battlefield. You’re the one who’s been sitting around here all day.” She said, poking him in the shoulder rather hard with her free hand. Draco shrugged halfheartedly before meeting her eyes once more. 

“You know, I was trying to be sweet and you ruined it, you arsehole.” She said, poking him again. “Sorry, sorry.” He said, a hint of a smirk on his face. Her smile faded then, her eyes laced with concern. She lifted her forehead off of his, but kept her hand where it was. Her gaze trailed to his cheek, not meeting his eyes. Draco sighed, “It’s okay, you can ask.” He urged, knowing that ever since she walked in the room, she wanted to ask him. Hermione heaved a breath, pursing her lips before speaking. “Are you okay? I mean, of course you’re not, but…” She trailed off, shaking her head at being unable to find the right words. 

Draco shrugged, feeling the lump in his throat return, ever-prominent. “No,” He said, his voice low and gravelly. “But I suppose I have to be, don’t I? I’m not allowed to not be okay. This is war; I can grieve on my own time, when it’s over, if it ever ends.” He stopped, taking a breath, shaking his head. He could feel his blood beginning to pulse as his rage began to take over again, but he willed himself to calm. “It’s just… I can’t explain it. He was the only family I had for a long time and then one day, he was just gone. His entire existence, his presence, just disappeared… Some days are harder than others. Today is just…” He shook his head again, “I’ll be alright, Hermione. I promise. I’ll live.” She nodded, swallowing hard. She took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. He knew she was thinking about Weasley; he could see it in her eyes. He knew he could offer no words of comfort, as there was nothing to say. So, he just held her hand a little bit tighter.

Draco leaned over and pressed a kiss against her temple, murmuring, “I’ll be alright.” Hermione nodded, squeezing his hand. She blinked away whatever it was she was feeling before pulling him into her. She pressed her face into his neck, nuzzling it, as he did the same. “You came back.” He whispered into her skin. Draco felt her breath catch as she held him a bit tighter to her. “I told you I would.” She said. She pressed a chaste kiss to his neck, her lips warm, “Always, Draco, always.” His heart swelled once more at the sound of that word,  _ always _ : It sounded like a declaration of sorts. The unspoken words held within that single one were… immense to say the least. 

Hermione was the one who broke their weighted silence. “Since we both seem to reek, how about a shower?” She asked. Draco couldn’t help but smile the slightest bit. He pulled away from her and nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good right about now.” And he wasn’t lying. A shower might actually make him feel better, if only a miniscule amount. Plus, showering with Hermione was always bound to make him feel better. “You finish up in here while I go run the water.” She said, standing up, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He nods as she pats his bicep. He watched as she left the room, looking back once at him when she reaches the doorway, giving him a half-hearted smile.

Draco swallowed hard, looking back to the bottle sitting on the table. It was almost empty. He poured its contents into his glass, studying them for a moment. His stomach turned at the idea of anymore alcohol tonight, but he didn’t care. He needed to do this. He owed it to Theo. He owed it to himself to feel numb, to keep the pain at bay. Draco, for a moment, let himself imagine what it would be like if Theo were here, sitting in the seat across from him. He imagined what it would be like to hear his voice again, to hear his laugh, to see him smile. To hear him make some obscene joke about his father, Draco’s own father, or the war. He imagined what it would be like for Theo to finally have Daphne here with him, in the same house, breathing the same air, rather than miles and miles away, the only contact being a letter. He tried to imagine what Theo would think of him and Hermione, knowing that he, at first at least, would have made some more obscene jokes about it, but would have been happy for him. 

He missed him, missed everything about him. Even the annoying things, like how he could never be serious when Draco was trying to have an actual conversation, or how he would steal food off of Draco’s plate when he wasn’t paying attention. For the longest time, he was the only family Draco knew, the only person he could turn to, talk to honestly, without him judging him. Theo would always be his brother, his closest friend. Now though, he had Hermione. She, though he was hesitant to admit it, was beginning to truly feel like family, like the most permanent thing in his life. She was helping to keep him rooted as Theo once did. 

He forced back the thoughts beginning to come forth, the memories of that night, the ones that would haunt him until his last breath. Draco sighed, eyeing the glass on the table. He picked it up, swirling around the amber liquid inside. It took all his strength to utter the words, to complete the ritual he began five years ago, on the night that it happened, on the night that he had seen the lights leave Theo’s earthy green eyes, on the night he held his body to him and cried, cried for hours in the cold. “Theodore Nott, my brother in everything but blood. May he find the peace we’re all seeking.” Feeling the tears well in his eyes, Draco lifted the glass to his lips, swallowing back the contents in one large gulp. It burned as it went down, but he didn’t mind, he welcomed it, welcomed the feel of anything that could suppress the ache that has taken up. 

He closed his eyes as it did, a tear trickling down his face in a streak. He sucked in an impossibly difficult breath, shuddering as he did. He fought back a sob, but failed. It overtook him, his entire body shaking as he cried, tears cascading down his face, down his nose. He cried for Theo, for his death, for his past, for the future he could have had. He cried for Daphne, for the future she was robbed of that night. He cried for himself, for his loss, for the never-ending agony that plagued him. He cried for the war, for all who it had claimed, for the best friend he lost, for the mother. He cried and cried until he finally managed to catch a break.

He wiped his eyes, catching his breath as best he could. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes hard until his breathing was steady enough for him to stand. He ached as he emptied the ashtray into the garbage, when he threw out the bottle. He then placed his glass into the sink with care, giving it one last glance before turning away. He had to meet Hermione. He had kept her waiting for too long already. Walking out of the room, ashtray in hand, Draco stuck his hand into his pocket, wrapping his hand around the wand that always sat there. The wood was warm to the touch, presumably from being in his pocket all day. 

He stopped in the doorway for a moment, no more, no less. He kept his hand wrapped around the wand, hoping, wishing for one sign, for a single flicker of power, just so he knew that maybe, somewhere, wherever he was, Theo was okay. So Draco kept on walking to the bathroom where Hermione was waiting for him, keeping his hand still on the wand. He was almost to the bathroom door when he felt it, the tiniest tremor of power, though he could have been imagining it. He clung to it, and clung to it fast, his breath hitching as his eyes burned, threatening to cry again. He didn’t though, smiling a sad smile to himself, releasing a low breath, before pushing open the bathroom door, where he could hear the water running. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure when the next chapter will be up, hopefully soon! Sorry it's taking so long in between, as I've been busy, since I'm nearing the end of my senior year of high school. 
> 
> Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think with comments or kudos, as I love hearing feedback from my readers:)
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at dilemma-ed (followbacks from dil-emma-ed). I post fic recs, occasional drabbles, updates on this fic as well as Broken, and general posts about HP/books. 
> 
> Until next time,  
> -Em


	11. Anthony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been way too long, and for that, I apologize, but thankfully, this chapter is a long one, and I have only five days of high school left, meaning that there are more updates to come.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter, but I wanted to put a warning here for this chapter, as there are mentions of suicide in it. I tried to handle it as delicately as possible, but I wanted to put up a warning regardless.
> 
> A HUGE thanks to my beta, closer-to-monkey, who was an absolutely amazing help to me for this chapter!
> 
> Enjoy!  
> -Em:)

It wasn’t too long after the fifth anniversary of Theo’s death, no, not at all, as it was Christmas Eve, thirty-seven days later, when death struck the house once more, catching the residents of the house off guard, a rare occurence in a house filled with soldiers fighting a war that never seems to end. They were always on their guard. Constant vigilance, that was the way of the Order. But how were they supposed to know what was happening right within their own home, their own little slice of peace, or, at least, the closest thing to it that they were going to get? 

The war has gotten more brutal as the days, the weeks, the months, the years passed. The fighting styles were more ruthless than ever, some even suicidal, but nothing seemed to propel the war forward, to bring forth an end, a light at the end of this very dark, very long tunnel. They were fighting tooth and nail almost every day, just struggling to stay alive, and none of it made any difference. Voldemort was still gaining influence, territory, followers and soldiers. They seemed to be fighting back the day by day, while the long term terrors still stood, still grew. People, good people, were still dying, the casualty reports neither shortening or lengthening, but still long nonetheless. 

Potter was still nowhere to be seen, not a peep about him, but, Draco supposed, that was the way that they wanted it. It prevented information from getting put into the wrong hands, but it also deprived information from those most deserving of it, namely, Hermione. She missed him, missed him dearly. Some days more than others, but she missed him all the same. He was her best friend, after all, the one person that she was closest to since she stepped into this world. He was practically her family, the only person, besides himself, left in this world who truly cared about her. He knew it was killing her not to know, to always be waiting for information, for updates that never came. The only thing they could be sure of, is that he was still alive. If he had died, he wouldn’t have put it past the Order to martyr him, to use his name, once again, as the driving force for the war. Of course, that’s not even considering what Voldemort would have done. He would have written it across buildings, shouted it from rooftops, used it to the utmost advantage to crush resistance, to crush hope. 

Some nights, he would look over at her and see the sorrow in her eyes, the longing for him, for Weasley, for something as simple as their presence or a single scrap of news about Harry. But Weasley was dead, she would never again feel the git’s presence, never talk to him, see him again. He knew how it felt better than anyone, to lose your best friend. He knew he couldn’t replace that, their bond, just as Hermione could never replace Theo. He wished he could fill that hole inside her, wished he could kiss it away, will away any pain that came her way, but Draco knew well enough that it wasn’t something he could lessen, something he could help. The pain would always be there, though it would ebb and flow, it would always be present, a constant part of her life. All he could do was be there for her, as much as it pained him, to sit there with her as she did for him, allowing her to grieve, to worry as she saw fit.  
Tonight, though, the house had grieved the loss of another of their own. It had been different this time, though. There had been no battle, no fighting. Most days, losing someone wouldn’t be a surprise, it was an unfortunate everyday occurrence. To that kind of death, they had become numb enough that they could at least anticipate it. It always hurt, always left a hole in their hearts, always frustrated him, but no matter how frustrated he was, no matter how empty he felt, how upset, he was never surprised. It was war, after all. But today–today, they had lost Anthony Goldstein to this war, to this horrible godforsaken war. He had–well, they had found him in his room this afternoon. Nobody had seen or heard from him since the night before and Michael Corner, who had come to be close friends with him over the time they had stayed at the safe house, went looking for him. 

When he opened the door to his bedroom, he was horrified by the scene in front of him. There was blood–so much blood everywhere, it–it was sickening. Anthony was in there, yes. He lay on the bed, eyes still half-open, leaning a crooked sort of upright against the pillows. He had committed suicide last night, ended his life, and not a single person had stirred, not one person had a clue as to what was going on merely feet from where they were sleeping. Anthony had slit his wrists and allowed himself to bleed out as he lie there, the knife still in his hand. Pools of drying, deep red blood lie on either side of him, his skin a sickly shade of pale, almost grey. Draco had been passing by the hall when he saw Michael, kneeling in front of his friend’s body on the bed, his breathing laboured, speaking inaudible words in a hushed voice. For a moment, his breath caught in horror, his feet unable to move from the spot he stood in as he watched Michael try to heal Anthony, but Anthony had already been long gone by then. It was much too late. 

Draco had pulled Michael off of him, no matter how much he resisted, how much he cried and screamed to leave him alone, to let him help Anthony. He had held him to him, trying to get his breath to steady, telling him that it was too late, that Anthony was already dead, but Michael wouldn’t hear it, he wouldn’t accept it. He just kept screaming. He could still hear his voice ringing in his ears, the word ‘no’, over and over again, he said it like a plea, like a prayer. When he realized that he couldn’t hold Michael for too much longer, he called for Hermione, who was glued to her spot in the doorway, to go get Aberforth. He had been forced to stun Michael to get him to stop writhing, to stop screaming. They had carried him to his room and allowed him to sleep peacefully, at least for a little while. He was still under now, they hadn’t wanted to disturb him, to confirm that the nightmare he had experienced today was real. Not today. Not at Christmas. Michael had seen death before, they all had, but never had they seen it done by deliberate choice in this way. Never had they seen someone give up their life just to end the pain, to make it all stop, to get a moment of peace. None of them were taking it well, but they weren’t sure how Michael was going to react once he woke. Even now, it was difficult to push the image of Anthony, mouth agape, knife in hand, blood everywhere, out of his mind. 

He had left a note, but it wasn’t a long one. Michael hadn’t even seen it yet. Aberforth had found it and Draco read it from over his shoulder. It had been on the nightstand, the quill still in the inkpot beside it. It had been written on a torn piece of paper from a muggle notebook, scrawled down desperately, but not hastily. There was but a single drop of blood on it, on the bottom corner. It was dark, dried it looked almost brown. The note had read, 

“ _ My brothers and sisters in arms, I’m sorry, for that’s all I can say for what I’m about to do, as I’ve thought about it for a while now. I can’t stand to live this nonlife anymore, this simple existence. I can no longer tolerate the fighting, the death of it all, despite the irony of my decision. The war has destroyed so much of me, I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I’m covered in the blood of my peers, my classmates. I’ve lost more than I ever thought possible. I’m not expecting you to forgive me for this, or to even be okay with it, but know that my loyalty forever lies with you. I’m sorry for having done this, but know that I did it in the hope of finding peace. I was not built for such suffering as this.” _

Draco wasn’t sure what to make of it. He had snatched the letter from Aberforth’s hand, having to read it again, over and over just to make sense of it. It wasn’t that Anthony wasn’t making sense, it was that he vocalized what they all were feeling. It scared him a bit, if he were being honest.

They had buried Anthony this evening in the yard alongside the others, just before they went inside to have a rather solemn Christmas Eve dinner. They had all stood in silence in the cold as Michael still lay in his bedroom, unaware. Aberforth had said a few words, as he usually did, but this time, it wasn’t his usual speech. His voice, usually authoritative and demanding attention, was resigned and soft, seemingly hopeless. Draco had never seen him in such a way. He had spoken about how much of a tragedy Anthony’s death was, how it was despicable that this war, that never seemed to end, that seemed to be getting darker and darker each day, had made him feel as if he had no other choice, how it had forced all of them, every one of them, to become someone they never would have become under other circumstances. For the first time in a while, Aberforth reminded him of his brother, of Dumbledore. Draco could have sworn his eyes glittered with tears, though it could have been a trick of the light. This was a different kind of death, a different tragedy that the war had caused and it seemed to have taken root inside of all of the members of the house, bonding them in a way that they hadn’t been before.

He sat with Hermione now, in the kitchen of course, but that was nothing new, not anymore. Her head lay against his shoulder as she looked on, but seemingly wasn’t really  _ seeing _ what was in front of her, as if, instead, she was seeing Anthony, seeing those like him, seeing the irreparable damage the war has done to each and every one of them. She was lost in thought, a world away, yet right here next to him. Her hand clutched his in a way that almost pained him, though he would never tell her so. He didn’t even think that she noticed she was doing it. Her whole body was tensed as she leaned against him, as if she was afraid that if she relaxed, he would disappear, vanish, as so many did these days. He turned his head and pressed a kiss against her temple, no more than a gentle brush, giving her hand a soft squeeze. She nestled into him a bit more, relaxing under the touch of his lips.

The hand that wasn’t clutching his was steadily gripped around a mug of sugar milk, the steam still rising from it. The sweet smell comforted him, wrapped around him like a security blanket. Draco had his usual tumbler sitting in front of him, the bottle of whiskey beside it almost half-empty. They’d been sitting there only for a little while, having given up on sleep this night, after all, it was close to morning already. They  _ had _ gone to bed, laid there for a while, holding each other in a dazed half-sleep, but Hermione was restless, and if he was being honest, so was he. He couldn’t turn off his brain, couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. Neither of them seemed able to find peace tonight, too lost in thought, too stunned.

It was now four o’clock in the morning and any hope of going back to sleep was lost now that the sun would rise in the next few hours. Soon, they would get up and get ready for the day, as the whole house agreed that they were going to try to have a proper Christmas this year. They had a shittily-decorated Christmas tree, with ornaments that Lovegood made and instructed others to make out of objects and foods from throughout the house. She claimed they were charms, meant to keep away this creature or that one, but Draco, along with the rest of the house, doubted it. It looked sort of pathetic, if he was being honest, but at the same time it brought a warmth to the house that hadn’t been there before. 

The tree itself, they went out into the woods to go and get. By ‘they’, he meant himself, Cormac, whom he had almost hexed to oblivion for hitting on Hermione as if he wasn’t there, and the woman herself. Hermione had insisted that they cut it down the muggle way, the way she and her parents had always done each and every Christmas. When she’d told him that, he could hardly say no, her eyes filled with hope and tears, knowing exactly the effect she was having on him, the witch. And if he was being honest, if the pleading look she’d given him wasn’t enough, the expression in her eyes as he finished putting up the tree, covered in sap that took hours to get out of his hair, had been so worth it. She looked so purely happy, in a way that she rarely was in this world of suffering and death. She seemed to glow, radiant in the fairy lights she’d conjured up. Hermione had picked the tallest, fullest tree that they could find, one that seemed to exude life. 

They’d even decorated the muggle way, the whole house, all of the residents together, a few nights before. It was rare that they would all be in the same room at times when they weren’t strategizing for missions or battles. It felt almost… nice, to have a sort of light comradery with everyone in a time of such darkness. There had been laughing, drinking, and even dancing after Lavender Brown, the irritating Gryffindor turned werewolf, had revealed the phonograph she had hidden in her room, since the recreational radio, a separate entity from the one they used to listen to Potterwatch every week, had been getting nothing but static in the past few days due to an incoming snowstorm. He’d put Hermione on his shoulders leading her around the room, putting up decorations, holding her tightly to him, constantly reassuring her that, despite the firewhiskey shots he’d taken along with some of the others, he was completely stable enough to be carrying her. He would be lying if he didn’t pretend to trip a few times just to hear her scream and see her cling harder to him before smacking him across the side of the head.

He’d even danced as well. He hadn’t danced since Christmas of his sixth year, when he had danced with Pansy at his parents’ Christmas Gala. She had been altogether too close for comfort and his mind hadn’t really be in it, as he’d been more focused on the blinding itching in his left forearm and his constant state of paranoia. Pansy became irritable the longer they danced, seemingly realizing that Draco’s mind was elsewhere. He’d actually stepped on her toe twice, a true sign of distraction, considering he could waltz in his sleep. He’d eventually abandoned her for champagne and the sanctity of his bedroom instead, where he proceeded to get rip-roaring drunk and scratch his forearm until it bled. 

This time, when he danced with Hermione, he’d held her close, his hands on her hips, tracing light circles as they moved as one. At first, Hermione had been a little unsteady on her feet, tripping a little bit, but he held her steady. She’d told him that she hadn’t truly danced like this since the Yule Ball and even then, she wasn’t all that graceful on her feet. They hadn’t been doing a particularly complicated dance, but a simple one, not much more than swaying. But of course, dancing came as easy to him as walking. 

_ “Shit,” Hermione cursed under her breath, her cheeks flushed as she glanced down in an attempt to both regain her footing and what Draco suspected, was an attempt to save herself from embarrassment by avoiding his eye. “I’m so horrible at this.” She stumbled again and he pulled her closer to him, gripping her hip. She lifted her head as she steadied herself, her chocolate eyes glancing around the room to see if anyone had seen her mishap. “Stop looking at them.” Draco said, watching her intently as he moved effortlessly, step after step. Hermione didn’t look away from those around her, her eyes dancing around, from person to person, seemingly assessing them. “Look at me.”  _

_ Hermione released a resigned sigh before bringing her eyes to meet his. She was dressed in one of her nicer pair of jeans and a warm maroon sweater that he’d earlier commented was, “Too Gryffindor for his liking”, but the truth was, it brought out the gold specks in her eyes that looked at him through dark thick lashes, that she lightly applied mascara to earlier. Her eyes further reflected the sparkling of the fairy lights they had hung, the muggle way, if Hermione asked, but truly, when she’d gone to go get the ornaments, he’d finished up with magic. It looked as if her eyes emulated the night sky, white and gold stars dancing within them in a way so entrancing, he wondered how he’d ever be able to look away. She had a healthy glow to her, one that he didn’t think had anything to do with the scarce bit of makeup she had applied for the occasion. Even now, with the little frustrated furrow in her brow, she seemed happier than she has been in months. _

_ “How is it that you’re so fantastic at this? It’s so effortless–it’s like you’re not even trying!” She said, her cheeks getting redder by the second. Draco chuckled, taking a hand off of her hip to push an errant chestnut curl out of her face, placing it gently behind her ear. “That’s because I’m  _ not  _ trying.” He gave her a winning smile as the furrow in her brow grew deeper. He pressed his thumb into the furrow, forcing her to release it. “Lighten up, Granger,” He said, his hand travelling to her cheek to caress her. She leant into it, her skin warm against his hand. “I’ve been taking ballroom dancing lessons since I could walk, not that I enjoyed it very much at that age. I was a menace, actually. But my mother felt it was a lost art. Well,” He said, a soft smile gracing his face at the thought of his mother, “That, and she loved parties. Throwing them, attending them…” He trailed off, remembering the way his mother would move through a party, like water, from guest to guest, smiling gracefully.  _

_ Hermione’s face softened at the mention of his mother, her thumb moving in soothing circles against the back of his neck, where her fingers were currently locked. She slipped a dazed smile as she watched him, her starlight-filled eyes staring endlessly into his silver opals. There was an almost indefinable expression filling her eyes, at least, one he couldn’t read. He could get lost in those eyes, in the glow that radiated off of her, in the smile that lit up her face like the fairy lights that hung around the room.  _

_ Clearing his throat, “You’re not too bad, though,” His voice came out more strained than he wanted it to and he mentally chided himself for it. “You’re just thinking too much, like always.” He said, tapping her temple playfully before placing his hand back on her hip. “Don’t think about the steps, just feel the movement and follow my lead.” Hermione bit her lip and nodded, glancing down at her feet. “And don’t look at your feet. It’s only going to mess you up.” As if he willed it, she stepped on his toe at that exact moment. She cursed under her breath, shaking her head as she lifted it up, but didn’t meet his eye, instead focusing on his chest. “Look at me, Hermione.” He said softly, so softly that he was sure that if their bodies weren’t pressed together, she wouldn’t be able to hear him over the music and chatter in the living room. Hermione tilted her face toward him, looking up through dark, sooty lashes. He leaned down slightly and rested his forehead against hers, pulling her the slightest bit closer to him. “Just focus on me,” He breathed out, lightly brushing his nose against hers.  _

_ Hermione smiled slightly, “I just want to state for the official record, that you look quite handsome tonight.” She unlaced her fingers, removing one of her hands to brush her fingers through his hair, which he’d taken care to style a bit tonight. He was wearing one of the few pairs of nice jeans he had left and a navy v-necked sweater that he happened to know Hermione liked. “Yeah?” He said, his focus never leaving her face. She nodded against his forehead. “Mmhm,” She closed her eyes and let him completely lead the dance. As she opened them, her lashes fluttered, barely scraping his cheek with their silken softness. “I wish everyday could be like this one.” She said, her voice barely above a whisper, almost as if she were speaking to herself. There was a twinge of sadness in her eyes, her enthralling brown eyes, like chocolate in its purest form, swirling with reflective gold. “I know, love, I know. Merlin, don’t we all?” He said, letting out the smallest of sighs. “Maybe one day,” He said, wishing upon every star in the sky, bright or dull, every fairy light that hung throughout this ramshackle house, every known deity, in the hopes that one would answer, “Maybe one day, they will be.” He whispered. It was as much sound as he could muster for such a statement. _

_ The lights seemed to sparkle around them, haloing her as if she were one of those angels in muggle paintings. He could feel her breath against his face, smell the sweet cider she had been drinking that was now mixed with her usual intoxicating scent of strawberries and vanilla and all he wanted to do was drink it in, to close the gap between them and never let go. He drew indecipherable patterns on her hip with his fingertips in a way that he knew would make her shutter. She watched him with an intensity that seemed to penetrate his soul, with a glint in her eye that seemed to say, ‘I know all of your secrets’, and he found, it didn’t scare him nearly as much as it should have. He leaned forward just a few inches, just enough so that his lips brushed against hers, before pulling back again, far enough back that he could see her whole face in perfect clarity. “Tease.” She said, sticking out her bottom lip in an attempt to feign pouting. He only chuckled, then placed a chaste kiss against her lips. She looked just about as content as he felt, maybe more so. She was smiling a toothless smile, a soft one that seemed to grace its way into all of her features. Moments like these… They didn’t come around too often anymore. Not when there was war to be waged, friends to mourn, Death Eaters to kill. He wanted to hold onto it, to live in this single moment, like one of those… snow globes that Hermione had told him about.  _

_ They were the only ones still dancing, but he didn’t care. He had no desire to stop. He’d dance with her forever if he could, despite her missteps, just to be able to hold her this close, to be with her. It felt like a privilege and a comfort, filling him with a warm feeling he couldn’t quite place, something that ran in his veins, was reiterated with each beat of his heart, was familiar to him yet strange and foreign, but he welcomed it all the same even if at times, it made him uncomfortable. It left him feeling unequivocally whole in a way he hadn’t been in a long while, if he ever had been to begin with.  _

They had stopped dancing, however, though they kept at it, moving about the room, until almost no one was left and the music had dulled down to a steady hum of sound. In the end, he found that it was hard to let her go, difficult in a way it shouldn’t have been. It reminded him too much of how he was forced to let her go, to separate from her when they went to battle, on a mission. It reminded him of the nights they had left the other standing alone, a silent promise in their eyes to come back to the other, to live. Over the past few months, he realized that they couldn’t even seem to muster goodbyes to each other anymore. 

They felt too final, as if accepting that this could be the last time they spoke and he couldn’t– _ couldn’t  _ accept it. He hated that he could feel a difference in the way she kissed, an air of finality in the swirl of her tongue, the brush of her lips before they left for a particularly dangerous mission. He hated the way she would absently brush his arm, his knuckles, his cheek before leaving, as if she needed one last touch. He hated that she would burrow closer to him, as if she couldn’t get close enough when they finally got back to the house, as if she were afraid that if she didn’t, he’d slip away. It made his heart clench and only made him hold her tighter, to comfort her, to push down the anxieties that plagued them. He didn’t want to have to be afraid; he didn’t want her to be afraid. He didn’t want to worry that every time one of them walked out the door, they might not return home to the other. He hated that they didn’t say goodbye, but he couldn’t bring himself to even say the word. He hated the word. He hated it. He’s said too many goodbyes in his short life.

He hated that the war had stolen so much from them, from all of them. They were all different people than they were when all this started so many years ago. He had been so young, they all had been, some more naive than others, but none of them had any real clue how truly sickening, how gruesome this war would be. No one could have anticipated how ruthless the battle techniques would be, how many people had died and will continue to die for this cause. He began to scratch absentmindedly at the scar on his forearm, at the mark that would forever brand him as different, that set him apart from the others, that would group him in with the very people who were destroying everything he cared about, that could incriminate him. He shook his head a little bit, trying to will down the bile that was rising in his throat at the very sight of it. 

Some seemed to care more than others about his affliction, about the mark that plagued him. Less now than it was in the first years, when everyone saw the war coming to an end in the foreseeable future. They looked at him with a sort of underlying disdain, some more obvious than others. Some looked at him with an outright disgust, one that suggested that they had no clue what his story was, what he had been through, why he had taken the mark. He didn’t owe them an explanation, he knew, and even if he gave them one, many of them wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t hear what he had to say. Some kept their distance, watched his movements from afar, were constantly wary of his presence in a room before they began speaking, but others were more adept at hiding it, with something as subtle as a glint in their eye, that showed him the distrust they held towards him. 

He ignored it, at least, he tried to. It was frustrating for him still not to be trusted by some seven years after fighting side by side with them. He was still atoning for this sin of his, and sometimes, it felt as if the atonement would never end. If he pushed up his shirtsleeves or, Merlin forbid he had on short sleeves or wasn’t wearing a shirt at all, people would fixate on that spot, tuning out everything he says, no matter how important, in favor of their ignorance of him and his situation. One of the few reprieves he had from the subtle, but still present ostracization was Hermione. Her, among with a few others, looked at him as if he were no different from herself, no different from anyone else fighting in the Order lines. Actually, that wasn’t true. 

When she looked at him, there was not a trace of disdain in her eyes, no hate nor pity. Not even close. She looked at him as if he was something truly astounding, as if he had hung the stars and willed them to shine, just for her. As if he was someone he never could be, someone he could only hope to be, someone who truly deserved her. She, unlike the others, unlike himself, didn’t cower away from his Mark, didn’t seem repulsed by it. No, not at all. She would kiss it, press her warm, familiar lips against it. She would run her fingers across it, the scarred skin, always red, always scabbed from his incessant itching. And, when he let her, when they actually had the supplies, she would rub salve into the skin, carefully, deliberately, so that the pain, which was often throbbing, ebbed to a dull ache. She was so good, too good to him. She is so much better than he would ever deserve, but he would damn well try. 

Each and every one of them had lost something, someone, to this war. Some of them lost everything and they kept on fighting in the hopes that maybe there would be an end to this seemingly ceaseless war. They were fueled by hatred, by revenge, loss, the need to reap justice in the name of the fallen. The lives lost were innumerable. The loved ones left behind continued to suffer for the cause, so that their deaths would mean something in the end, so that they knew that the loss of their loved one had not been for naught, or at least, that was the idea. It seemed just to be a cycle of loss, no end in sight, the same patterns of suffering imprinted on each of them like a brand. As the days crawled on, it became more and more visible that the war was killing all of them, it was just a slower kind of death than the ones the fallen had experienced. It was destroying their souls, their very beings from the inside out. It would drive them all mad, rip them apart until there was nothing left but an empty shell of who they were. Those who survived would be nothing more than that: surviving. He took another swig of his drink, needing to wash away the thought.

For Christmas, and now Anthony’s death, Aberforth had been able to get them the day off from missions. Their presence would only be needed on the battlefield in case of an emergency, which, hopefully, there wouldn’t be. But you never knew with war. If there was one thing Draco had learned from these long years is that war was unpredictable and cruel, you had be able to anticipate anything. Today’s events only proved that point further. He wasn’t sure how much more unpredictability he could take. It was taking a toll on him, on all of them; he could feel it more and more each day, an incessant ache. 

They were supposed to have a proper Christmas, to sit down together, as some sort of a makeshift family, for dinner. It was something he was, though he’d never admit it to Hermione, actually looking forward to. As much as he complained that everyone irritated him, he was hoping this dinner might lift Hermione’s spirits, if not his own. They all had a strange sense of camaraderie among themselves, something that bound them all together. If he was being honest with himself, when they weren’t all bickering, he had some to enjoy the bizarre company. Hermione had called them ‘The Island of Misfit Toys’. He thought that fit quite well. They were like a patchwork quilt, different stories, personalities, bound together by a thread, like the one Hermione kept on their bed, the one that Molly Weasley had given her for Christmas one year, long ago. From Aberforth’s reserved smile, Lovegood’s dazed rambling, Cormac’s superior attitude, Lavender’s loud opinions, Percy’s barely-restrained judgement, Daphne’s quiet laughter, Michael’s constant correcting, their newest resident, Seamus’s animated story-telling, Hermione’s melodic voice, her laughter, Anthony’s–

_ Anthony _ . Anthony, Anthony, Anthony. Tears burned behind his eyes in a desperate attempt to escape, but he refused to let them, forcing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, pressing just enough to  _ feel  _ something. He took a shuddering breath, swallowing back the bile threatening to crawl up his throat. There would be an empty chair tomorrow, a vacant space in the house, in their hearts. He wouldn’t be there, wouldn’t be smiling so wide his dimples showed, wouldn’t laugh at some obscenely unintelligent joke that Michael made. He wouldn’t be there at all. This war killed him,  _ murdered _ him, just as much as it did Theo or Weasley. Just as much as it was killing him. 

What about this, about this war, this situation was fair?  _ Fair _ . It was no longer a word in their vocabulary. It was only a concept, only something that they could long for, something to look at from far away, something to look at the sky and wish for. Fair no longer existed in this world. It was a phantasmic ideology. So no, wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that this war forced Anthony, forced them all, to become someone they never thought they could be. It wasn’t fair that this war had ripped away every source of comfort, every source of hope until Anthony felt as if he had no other choice. It wasn’t fair that other soldiers, other people, feel the same as he did, or that almost all of them, Draco included, understood it. It wasn’t fair that thousands upon thousands of people, men, women, and children, died for this war. It wasn’t fair. None of it was. Fair hadn’t existed in a long time.

Draco felt a hand press between his shoulder blades, running soothingly down his spine, then up again. “Are you alright, Draco?” Hermione said, though he was sure she already knew the answer. His breath had gone so ragged he was unable to speak, though Hermione’s hand had steadied him a bit. His hands slid across his face and into his hair, pulling on it. He shook his head slightly, fighting off the shudder that seemed to take root in his bones. “It’s not fair,” He breathed out, the words coming out exasperated, breathless. “It’s not fair, Hermione.” His breaths were getting shallower and shallower as he closed his eyes tight enough to see bursts of light dancing behind his lids. Hermione’s hand trailed up and down his spine in indecipherable patterns. He forced himself to focus on it, to let it ground him. “No,” She said, her voice soft and solemn, “No, it’s not.” She said, taking a pause. Draco flinched at the harshness, the truth in those words. “Things never are. Not here, not in this world. Fair is a luxury we can no longer afford. We gave it up the day this war began. It will never be fair that Anthony died, or Theo, or Ron, or your mother, or Justin, or Katie, or everyone else we’ve lost to this shitshow of a war.” Her breath hitched as she inhaled quickly, a heavy silence hanging over them only for a moment before Hermione once again broke it. 

“But Draco, my love,” She sounded tired, so, so damn tired. “All’s fair in love and war, at least, to them. But we won’t take this, take any of it, laying down. For every death, for every injury, every act of cruelty, every second of suffering, we pay them back tenfold. If fair doesn’t exist on our side, then we will eradicate it on theirs because I’ve had enough of it. I’ve had enough of watching my friends be murdered, tortured. I’m sick of seeing them in pain, of seeing them, my classmates, my makeshift family,  _ you _ suffer, Draco. There needs to be retribution for what’s being done to them, to us.” She let out a sick laugh, sounding too much like himself for comfort. “How horrible to realize that the only way to create fairness in such a cruel world, to even the playing field, is with even more  _ death _ . Too much death.” Her hand stilled on his back, her fingers clenching into a half-fist against the fabric of his tee-shirt.

Draco forced himself to sit up, and as he did, Hermione’s hand slid off of his back and to her side limply. She was looking at him, her warm brown eyes glassy and full of something he couldn’t name. Her hair hung in loose tendrils around her face, still a touch damp from the shower she’d taken earlier. She was chewing on her plump bottom lip, as she so often did, as she gazed on, her eyes trailing his face, scanning every facet of it. It took all of his strength to pull his quicksilver eyes away from her and to the bottle awaiting him on the table. He poured himself another glass, drinking half of it down before placing it back onto the table. He slipped an arm around Hermione’s waist, tugging her, and by default, her chair, toward him. She curled into his side, raising her hand to his jaw, which he had yet to shave this morning, giving it a slight blond stubble, tracing it with a soft scratch of her fingernails. 

Her breath was warm against his face as she spoke, her voice soft, but desperate in a way that seemed to shatter his heart. “Promise me,” She said, watching her fingers as they moved across his face, as if she couldn’t bear to look into his eyes, “Promise me that you would–that you would  _ never _ –” She broke off, shaking her head as she dropped her hand away from him. When he glanced over at her, her eyes shone with tears, glittering like diamonds. He grabbed her hand with one of his and took Hermione’s chin in his other, forcing her to look at him, though her eyes still refused to meet his. Her cheeks were heated with embarrassment, her breath low and uneven. When Draco spoke, his voice came out low, almost a grumble, “Hermione, I would  _ never– _ ever do that to you, do you hear me? I wouldn’t–I wouldn’t even consider it. I would not, by choice, leave you in this piece of shit world. If I go down, I’ll go down wands-blazing, taking as many of those sadistic  _ motherfuckers  _ with me as I possibly can. I would  _ never  _ put you through that. No matter how hopeless I seem, I won’t–so don’t you even think on it for one moment, Hermione.” Her brow was furrowed as a tear rolled freely down her cheek. She was still biting her lip, but now it seemed, it was not for anxiety’s sake, but instead, in an attempt to prevent her lip from quivering. 

Draco leant forward just enough and pressed his lips gently against the tear that was seemingly suspended at the apple of her cheekbone. He kissed it away, the salt of it seeping into his mouth as he did so. He then rested his cheek against hers, closing his eyes as he relished at the feeling of being able to hold her so close to him. He pulled away, placing a chaste kiss on her lips, her eyes still shut, but kept their fingers entwined. He reached into his pocket with the other, his finger tracing the box, the silver ribbon that garnished it. Hermione’s eyes fluttered open just as he pulled it out, his heart pounding in anticipation, in fear. He placed the box, which he had modestly decorated in brown paper he had found, tied tight with a silver ribbon, down in front of her. 

Wiping her eyes, Hermione raised her eyebrows as she looked down at the box then to Draco, and back again. “Merry Christmas, Hermione.” He said quietly, softly, with all the tenderness he was only able to muster in her presence, in these moments, when they were alone and vulnerable. “I know we all made arrangements to give out gifts later, together, but… I wanted to give this to you alone. It’s none of their sodding business what I give you.” He said with a small laugh. “Don’t worry, there’s still something under the tree for you.” He was aware that he was rambling, but he couldn’t seem to stop, the words slipping out of his lips like vomit. His heart was pounding in his ears, his free hand was twisted in the hem of his shirt. 

After a beat, Hermione spoke, her eyes still on the package that lie in front of her. “What is it?” She asked breathlessly, seemingly studying it from all possible angles without opening or touching it. He laughed again, “You do know how gifts work, don’t you? You have to open it to find out. That’s the fun of it all.” He said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Hermione smiled, chuckling as she shook her head. “Of course.” She said, her voice a little weary as she picked up the small parcel. He watched her as she took it carefully in her hand, pulling at the ribbon agonizingly slow, or it might have just seemed that way to him. She looked up at him with big brown eyes before pulling at the paper, making sure, in the most Hermione way, that she didn’t tear the paper, though it was just some paper he’d stolen from Aberforth’s office.

Finally, the box stood bare, an old beaten up thing that had once held his Malfoy sigil ring, the very ring that was on his right ring finger at the moment. Hermione looked at him, raising her eyebrow to him, her breaths shallow. There was a question in her eyes, to which he shook his head, a quaint smile taking up residence on his face. His eyes went wide as he answered her. “Merlin, Hermione. I’m not proposing. And believe me, if I was, I would, at the very least, be on one knee. Do you really think so lowly of me?” Hermione released the breath she had been holding and laughed a beautiful laugh, the kind that warmed him, eased his heart, if only a little bit. “Of course not! I’m just a little bit… out of it.” She said, laughing awkwardly. 

She looked up at him, biting her lip. “I didn’t want you spending too much money on me, Draco. Not when there’s people dying all around us, people who could use that money to pay for the damages, at least the physical ones, that the war has caused.” She said, her voice small, but fierce. That was his Hermione indeed, always thinking of other before herself. She wasn’t able to receive a gift without feeling guilty for it. The damn Gryffindor. She was going to be the death of him one of these days, well, if the war didn’t kill him first.

Draco chuckled, “You and your damn bleeding heart, Granger,” He said. In moments like these, it was too easy to slip back into calling her by her surname. When she looked at him incredulously, he sighed, his voice low as he said, “It didn’t cost me a thing, Hermione. I promise you that. It’s just something I had laying around.” Hermione looked at him, unbelieving, her gaze akin to one she would have given Potter or Weasley when they were at school, after they had just told her they  _ didn’t _ cheat on their Potions exam. “You  _ know  _ I don’t have the kind of money I used to have anymore. I gave what I had to pay for medical supplies and all the rest goes to my monthly budget of Firewhiskey and cigarettes.” Draco raised his glass, tipping it toward the bottle sitting on the table before taking a long sip, draining the glass. Hermione sat there, staring between him and the box in her hands. She seemed to not be completely convinced, but still looked curious. When her voice came, it was small, “Do you promise?” He inclined his head towards the box in her hands. He was sure that if she didn’t open the damn box soon, his heart would actually give out from the anticipation. With every second longer, his heart seemed to pound a little harder, beat a little quicker. “Yes,” He breathed out, “I swear it.” He said, brushing his forefinger against her small wrist. When she didn’t move to open the box, he finally let loose the breath he had been holding in and said, “You’re killing me, love. Open the damn thing.” His lip quirked up into a coaxing smile.

Hermione nodded and a moment later, her fingers finally found purchase on the box and she guided it opened, her eyes going wide as saucers as she did. “ _ Draco… _ ” She said, though it sounded more like a gasp, her hand pressed lightly to her mouth in surprise, her eyes gleaming with something he couldn’t put a name to. His heart was pounding and he felt as if he couldn’t move from this spot, though he very much wanted to run, wanted to hide. When she looked up at him, her eyes were filled with tears and she was smiling a graceful, toothless smile, her lip, her beautiful lip wobbling. His heart swelled at the sight of her as he tried to gauge her reaction. “Draco, are you sure?” She whispered, her gaze so tender, so compassionate as she looked at him. Draco nodded as he cleared his throat, “Do–do you like it?” He asked, his usually confident tone sounding so terrifyingly desperate. Immediately, Hermione nodded, “I love it, my love, I love it so much. I would be so proud to wear it. It’s absolutely beautiful, but are you sure?” 

Was he sure? This was a question he had asked himself many, many times when he considered giving it to her. He thought of the way she made him feel, the way she was able to steady him, to warm him, to ease his pain, his suffering, with a single touch. He thought of the way her voice sounded like a symphony that he hoped would never stop playing. He thought of the way she tasted, the way her mouth seemed to be sweet, seemed to be a sort of ambrosia tailored only to him, addicting, as if he could never get enough, making him feel as if he wanted to drown in her. He thought of the sleepy smile she gave him when she woke, the way she would burrow her head into his neck, his chest. He thought of the way she smelled, strawberries and vanilla, the way it intoxicated him, the way it clung to their sheets, her person. He thought of the way he’d catch her gazing at him while she thought he was sleeping, smiling at him, her brown eyes glittering in the morning light. He thought of her kisses, the way she made his blood sing enchanting melodies, the way his heart pounded, the way he was left breathless, dizzy, drunk on her, each and every time. 

He thought of the cute furrow in her brow that she would get when she was concentrating or frustrated, the way she looked as she was reading, so mesmerized, so utterly focused. He thought of the stupidly adorable way she slurped at her drinks, always in the quietest moments. He thought of the way it felt to fall asleep holding her in his arms, to wake up entangled in her, the way her hair would suffocate him, the way her toes were  _ always _ cold. He thought of her expression as she slept, how she sometimes slept with her mouth open the barest bit, how it was the only time, other than after they had sex, that she would be completely at ease, unguarded; a glimpse into the girl she would have been if this world hadn’t forced them all to change. He thought of her eyes, the beautiful golden brown eyes that seemed to glow a hundred different colors all at once, in a way so enthralling, he could study them for hours. He thought of her curls, the way one always seemed to hang in front of her face, in desperate need to resist her attempts of retraining it, the way he loved to twirl them around his finger when they were in bed, fully sated. He thought of the way he felt when she was in danger, the fear that thrummed through his blood at the very thought of losing her. He thought of the desire to protect her that seemed to consume him whole. He thought of the way it felt to be with her, the way they moved as one, the way she knew his body, every scar, every muscle, every dimple, and he hers. He thought of the way she seemed to know every facet of him, every piece of him, even the broken bits, the ugly ones, and has claimed every bit of it as her own regardless.

So yes, he was sure. He was never more sure about anything in his entire life. “Yes, love, I’m sure. I’m so very sure.” He said, inclining his head in a smile. Her smile grew, her eyes crinkling in the corners in the way that he loved. “What about the inscription?” She asked, her voice small. She ran her fingers over the words, those pointless, hateful lies. ‘ _ Sanctimonia Vincet Semper’,  _ it read. The words that had once seemed so important to him, but now put a bad taste in his mouth. “Fuck the inscription. ‘ _ Purity Will Always Conquer’. _ What absolute garbage. You’re living proof that that motto, those words, are utter  _ bullshit _ , Hermione. That’s why you  _ should _ have it. Every damn day, Hermione, you prove those words wrong. You prove everyone out there, everyone fighting for  _ Him,  _ wrong. You prove my father wrong. You’re the strongest witch I know, the most powerful, definitely the most intelligent. You make me so proud to know you, to–” He broke off, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks at the words that had almost slipped out from his lips. He sighed, meeting her eyes, the warmth of the rising sun shining from within them. “Purity in blood  _ doesn’t matter.  _ It never has. I wish I had always thought that; I wish those fuckers on the other side thought it.” He placed a hand over her heart, against its thrumming, steady beat, his anchor to this world. “You have a purer heart than any of those elitist assholes. If any of them had a brain, a heart like yours, this war would have been over a long time ago.”

Placing a hand over his, Hermione leant forward in her chair, crushing her lips to his passionately, but gently, lovingly all the same. Draco put everything into that kiss, trying to convey the words that were caught in his throat, that he couldn’t find the courage to speak. It was warm and slow, but as Hermione took the fabric of his tee-shirt into her fingers, twisting it, there was a kind of slow-burning desperation, the kind that you don’t see coming until it consumes you, burns you from the inside out. It was all-consuming, every part of him feeling more alive than it ever had been, as if there were something  _ else _ , hidden in her kiss, something subliminal in the way her lips moved against his, in the way her tongue caressed his own. Her touch made him burn, made him ache, yearn for something just out of reach, something he couldn’t quite name, or at least, was scared to. It seemed to awaken a new shade of desire within him, unlocking a part of him he had kept hidden, something he had pushed down deep inside him and threw away the key. It was destroying him, remaking him into something else, something that he was terrified of, but welcomed all the same. He felt utterly alive in a way he only ever felt when he was with her, holding her, kissing her, ravishing her, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted it to subside. She made him feel more intoxicated than whiskey ever could. He wanted to drown in her, let her fill his lungs. He wanted to throw himself into the fire and let himself burn.

Cursing the human need for oxygen, Draco ripped his lips from hers, resting his forehead against hers as he attempted to catch his breath. Hermione’s eyes burned with desire as she looked at him, gazed at him through hooded lids. Her lips were bruised, swollen. She licked them deliciously, her breath coming slowly from the parting between them. Draco followed suit, trying to sop up the last of her inebriating taste on his lips, not wanting to waste even a single drop of her. Her fingers came up to trace his jaw, his cheekbone lazily, her golden eyes narrowed to slits. He shivered under her touch, leaning into her warmth, her touch. 

“Can you–can you help me put it on?” She asked finally, gazing at the delicate heirloom in the box on the table between them. “Of course.” He said, leaning back before picking up the box, carefully removing the necklace inside. Hermione turned away from him, pulling her curls to the side, exposing her neck to him. He turned in his seat, taking each side of the chain in his slightly-shaking hands and placing it over her head, so that he could clasp it. It took him two tries, but once he successfully closed the clasp, he leant in toward her, placing gentle and deliberate kisses on her neck, at her pulse point, letting his eyes flutter shut as he allowed himself to feel the life that thrummed through her veins, the way her heartbeat was slightly elevated under his touch. Her breath hitched slightly, turning her neck to give him better access. The heat of his breath was hot against the cool skin of her neck. 

Placing a feather-light kiss at her collarbone, he leaned back, allowing her to turn around to face him. “Let me see.” He said, his hand snaking around her waist to pull her toward him once again. Shaking her hair back into place, Hermione turned, her left hand touching the pendant so gently, as if she feared it would break if she didn’t. The necklace, the pendant, glittered as it hung around her neck, resting perfectly against her soft skin. His mother’s pendant, his only possession left of hers, save the Black sigil ring she had given him for his sixteenth birthday. The white gold pendant shone as if it were brand-new, the goblin-made material never tarnishing, even after years of resting against his mother’s body, after years of abuse in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor. The emerald seemed to emit a sort of green flame in the low lighting of the kitchen. 

The necklace was an heirloom, something passed through generations of Malfoys for however many decades. His father had given it to his mother, and before that, his grandfather to his grandmother. It was supposed to be a symbol of love eternal between the Malfoy men and their wives, ironic, in more than one fashion. The first being that most of the marriages within his family, as in most pureblood wizarding families, had been arranged, the couple maybe meeting once before they were to seal their betrothal contract with an unbreakable vow, and barely three more times before they were wed. Sure, maybe a few of them might have fallen in love, but, he was sure, it mostly had to do with convenience. Love wasn’t supposed to be that way. Marriage wasn’t supposed to be treated as a business transaction, as if breeding purebred dogs, at least, that was what he always thought. It was supposed to be a declaration of love, a promise between two people stronger than any other bond, to protect one another, to love each other always, in spite of their shortcomings, their flaws.

This of course, brought him to the second irony: the sham that was his parents’ marriage. His parents’ marriage, like most of those before them, was arranged, but, from what his mother had told him when he was a child, it didn’t feel like a duty to them, at the time. She had told him that she had fallen hard for his father, that she had admired the older boy from afar in her earlier years at Hogwarts, her sisters thinking her a fool. They had sealed their betrothal when she was fourteen, a mere fourth year, and his father sixteen. His mother had tried to tell him, promised him, that his father wasn’t always the way he is now, that he was kind once, gentle, even, but Draco couldn’t picture it. She had told him that he courted her, had been attentive to her every need, had worried about her amidst her pregnancy with Draco. Maybe he had loved her once, but that love was lost long ago, before Draco was born. If he had loved her, he would have protected her, as he promised to, when the Dark Lord, when his followers, tortured her. But he had stood by, always the coward, and allowed his wife to be imprisoned, tortured, raped, killed in her own home. He brought a sadistic murderer into the house, had allowed his wife to live in fear, to remain constantly vigilant in her own home. That is not love. His mother, on the other hand, despite his father’s harsh words, cold demeanor, and cowardice, had loved him anyway, right to the end, though he didn’t–doesn’t deserve it. His mother had worn that necklace, that symbol of love, until the day she died, and then some. She never took it off, not even to sleep.

He supposed the necklace was created with good intentions, by one of his ancestors who had truly loved their wife, had loved them enough to gift it to them, to have it made in their honor, but that ideal had been gone from his family for a long time. It seemed about time that the necklace once again symbolize true love, rather than a dilution, no–distortion of it. Draco, when making the decision to gift it to Hermione, had kept that thought in the forefront of his mind. 

In the nights since he began to consider giving the necklace to Hermione, there was an insistent, but barely there voice, one he could practically hear, even after years of not hearing it, whispering to him, coaxing him to give her the necklace. His mother’s voice had told him that it was alright to let go of that piece of her, to gift it to Hermione, that she was at peace with it. He knew it was just his mind talking, the insanity that’s been growing in him for years beginning to take effect, but, he couldn’t help but think, but hope, that it wasn’t just his own inner monologue taking the voice of his mother. But rather, that part of Narcissa Malfoy still protected him in every way she possibly could, and now, would protect Hermione in gifting his mother’s necklace to her. He knew that his mother, despite blood prejudice in the past, would have loved Hermione, would have revelled in finally having another woman, and an intelligent one at that, to talk to. He could almost see, in another life, another world, his mother giving him that very same necklace to give to Hermione, releasing her guardianship over the heirloom. 

As he considered other things he could give to Hermione for Christmas, nothing else seemed right, all unable to convey the message that the necklace was able to. It was the only thing in his possession that he could give to her that seemed to show how much she really meant to him. It was a piece of him, that necklace, and it was a piece of his mother, one of the few he had left. It was more important to him, more special, than almost everything he owned. Draco knew that Hermione would know that, that she would understand what it meant for him to give it up to her. She was always able to read him better than most, always able to read the unspoken words in his eyes, but this time, he didn’t want to give her unspoken promises, but something tangible, genuine, even if he still couldn’t find the courage to be completely vulnerable, to shout, even whisper his declarations, to let her know, truly, how important, how  _ essential _ , she was to him. She knew how much that necklace meant to him, she listened, held his hand as he cradled it in his other, as he told her the meaning behind it, as he spoke about his mother on the night that he found her body. With that necklace, Draco had handed over a part of his heart, a part of his soul, the part that has been hers for a long while now, whether or not he chose to recognize it.

When her brown eyes met his, they were full of unshed tears and so, so much emotion he felt he might crack under the weight of her gaze. Looking at her now, the expression in her eyes, the way the pendant seemed to fit in against her creamy skin, as if it were made to lay there, he realized that it wasn’t, in the slightest bit difficult, and completely worth it to give up this part of himself to her. To see her like this, he would gladly sacrifice his whole heart, his whole being. As she blinked, two rolled down her cheek, but she quickly wiped them away. “Don’t cry, love.” He said, his thumb caressing her cheekbone gently, as if she were made of the finest china. She placed her hand on his, allowing her eyes to flutter closed for a moment and no longer. “You may be an arse sometimes–” Draco snorted at that, but allowed her to continue. “Okay, well, most of the time, but…” She trailed off her, eyes lingering on his lips before bringing them up to look directly into his molten silver eyes. There was a trace of a smile on her lips, the smallest sliver of an expression, but there was so much carried in it. “You are  _ extraordinary,  _ Draco. You are so rare, so beautiful. Like a falling star. Look away and you’ll miss it, but if you look long enough, hard enough, and manage to see it, it takes your breath away, gives you hope. You’re so intense, so concentrated that you burn. You burn so gloriously, so completely. From far away, it looks so simple, a streak of light, miraculous light across the sky, but if you look closer, it burns in layers, in an array of colors, with a core of stone; solid, strong, unwavering despite the stress, the pressure. You burn so bright, my star, my dragon. It’s my pleasure, my absolute and complete pleasure to witness it.” Her voice was soft, but she spoke strongly, unwavering as her eyes searched his, seemingly seeing something within him that only she could. His heart swelled, pounded in every limb, every vein.

Her fingers came up to touch the pendant at her neck, tracing the serpent, stopping at the bright-burning emerald that lay at the center, where the end of the tail meets its back. “And I am proud, so proud, to wear this. I will cherish it, protect it with my life, if I have to.” She pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, her forehead resting against his for a moment. “I wish I could have known her.” She said, “She seemed like a very strong woman, to the end.” Draco smiled a sad smile, “Yeah,” He said, his voice not quite broken, “She was.” He looked to the ceiling for a moment before looking back at Hermione, needing to look away from the intensity of her gaze, if only for a moment. “I think–I think she would have liked you–a lot.” He said, smiling, his eyes burning with tears that he refused to let fall. “I think you two would have gotten along quite well, actually… I could only imagine what you two would have done together… In another life, I suppose.” He said with a sad laugh that sounded more like whimper. He cleared his throat, scratching at the faint scruff on his face. “I believe she would have liked knowing that you had her necklace, been at peace with it.” He choked down a long sip of firewhiskey, licking away the droplet that escaped his lips. 

He cast his pewter eyes downward to the scuffed wood of the table, studying it, though he knew every crack, every divot as sure as he knew his own face. His fingernails scratched at the simple pattern etched on his tumbler, allowing him to focus on something other than the complex array of emotions he’s feeling. A companionable, but heavy silence weighed over them as they sat there, Draco staring at the table, drinking his whiskey, Hermione gazing at him, her eyes soft, filled with a deep intimacy, as if she could read him from a mile away. The only noise was the sound of Hermione drinking her, now-lukewarm sugar milk, the sweet, familiar aroma encasing the room like an embrace. Hermione’s hand rest on top of Draco’s, her fingertips delicately tracing the lines, the callouses, the scars on his knuckles.

It was Hermione, as it often was, who finally broke that silence. Her voice was soft, tentative, but light all the same. “You know,” She said, causing Draco to look up from the table. “I didn’t get you anything nearly as special, I hope you’ll forgive me.” Draco’s lip quirked up and a laugh, as small as it was, bubbled up inside him. “It’s alright, you’ll just owe me for the next major holiday.” She laughed, crinkling her nose in mock distraught. “I don’t like the thought of giving you that sort of power over me.” She said. Draco smirked, moving his hand to trail up her leg, “Hmm?” Hermione giggled as she pushed his hand off of her, but moved into Draco’s lap. She was close enough to him that he could feel her breath against his cheek. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear it.” She said, her fingers ghosting his jaw in a way that shot chills down his spine. 

Placing a strategically hot kiss at the corner of his jaw, Hermione moved so that her lips were so close to his ear, that he could almost feel the velvet of her lips against the shell. Her arm was wrapped around his neck, holding her close to him as his hand wrapped around her waist. “Thank you so much, my love.” She whispered, her breath warm against his ear, “This means more than you could ever know and I am forever grateful to you. I–” She broke off, her breathing heavy and audible in his ear. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, even softer than it had been before. “‘I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.’” Her words were laced with such compassion, such tenderness, that his heart pounded against the constraints of his chest. “ _ Twelfth Night _ .” was all he could muster, his voice rough, but barely above a whisper. Hermione nodded against him, burying her face into his neck, her lips lingering for the longest time against his pulse point, the blood rushing through his veins to meet her touch, igniting, invigorating him.

Draco wrapped his arms around the witch, allowing his eyes to close as he burrowed his face into her. “You don’t owe me anything, Hermione. It’s enough just knowing that you like it, that you’re wearing it.”  _ It’s enough that I’m holding you, that you’re mine, that you’re alive, _ he thought, though he couldn’t find the voice to say the words aloud. Hermione seemed to read his tone, read between his words, hugging him tighter, holding onto him as if he were the only solid thing left in the world. If he wasn’t confident in his occlumency skills, he would have thought she had read his mind. “You’re more than I deserve, Draco Malfoy.” She whispered, her voice thick with tears. She kissed his cheek gently, pulling away, his skin cold, empty, yearning, in her absence. He could feel the print of her hands, her fingers. Her lips against his skin, leaving marks unseen, tattoos that seemed to pulse underneath her touch.

His heart was drumming a beat, a symphony it only ever seemed to when she was around, when she was this close to him. Draco’s eye caught a stray curl hanging in front of Hermione’s eye and he reached his hand out to gently brush it away. He put all of his focus into hooking it around her ear as he said, “That’s not true, Hermione,” His voice was quiet, “You deserve much more than this necklace. You deserve more than I have to offer you, than I ever could. You deserve so much better than me.” He sucked in a breath, still refusing to look into her eyes, but he could feel her steadily gazing at him with an intensity that could turn coal into diamond. His hand ghosted her face, the shell of her ear, her jaw, her cheekbone. “You’re so good, Hermione. Despite everything this war has done, all that it’s taken, it has not and cannot take that away from you. You are so kind, so talented, intelligent, if not swotty,” He said, breathing out a laugh. He felt Hermione smile a bit under the gentle caress of his fingers. “You’re ruthless when you need to be. You’re always selfless, stupidly, so stupidly brave, but I suppose that comes with your Gryffindor Golden Girl title.” He mused. Draco’s silver eyes skid across her face, still avoiding her eyes, noting the golden freckles that dotted her face like stars in the night sky. “You are so much better than I could ever hope to be. And you are… so beautiful. You are…” He trailed off, searching for the right word, on the tip of his tongue, but just out of grasp. “I am lucky to know you, let alone have the privilege of being yours.” 

Draco’s face filled with heat as he spoke, his ears, his neck. His heart was beating in his ears, rushing, so that he could just barely hear himself, the ridiculous, ridiculous words that came out of his mouth. If he sounded ridiculous to himself, he could only imagine how he sounded to Hermione, to any of the people who lived in the house who might have walked by and heard him. He was scared to lift his eyes to hers, to see the reaction to his words. It wasn’t that he hadn’t  _ thought  _ these things before, it’s that he had never said them out loud, never even  _ considered _ , saying them. What scared him the most, was that every word of what he said was true and he  _ needed  _ her to know it. That was, after all, why he had given her the necklace. 

Releasing a breath, Draco forced himself to look at her finally, to face her reaction to his most inner thoughts, to his vulnerabilities. His molten silver eyes finally met hers, the gold in them shining brightly in the early, early, morning light. Before he could look away again, Hermione grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her, entrapping him into the heat of her gaze. “We deserve each other, Draco, don’t ever think otherwise. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, but that doesn’t make you any less than who you are. You think so little of yourself, believing your sins, your misdeed to be to great for atonement, but Draco, my love, your good-doings, your dedication, your sacrifice, outweighs those sins a thousandfold. It’s not about what you did wrong, we all make mistakes, Merlin knows I have made plenty whether you choose to acknowledge them or now, it’s about what you have done right, which is more than you will ever know.” She shifted closer to him once more, her forehead resting against his gently, her eyes hooded heavily, her golden irises reduced to almost-dazed slits. 

The intimacy held in the way that she was looking at him caused a shudder to shiver down his spine, his breath hitching slightly as he looked on at her.  _ He could look at her forever _ , he thought, watching the way that the day’s new sunlight played across her face, caressing her in golden rays that seemed to make her skin glimmer in an almost celestial way. Her lips were just barely parted, looking delectable, like fresh fruit hanging from a tree on a summer’s day. He felt as if his lungs were constricting at the sight of her, at the prospect of being so close. His breath was becoming more laboured as he fought to even his breathing. His body, his mind, his blood, his bones, screamed for him to close the few inches between them and to show her how he felt in the only way he knew how. His shattered heart yearned to be closer, to feel her skin under his touch, the way she reacted to him, gasped, arched, moaned, shuddered under his ministrations. 

Draco allowed his eyes to close, moving the slightest bit to close the distance between them, feeling as if, if he didn’t, he might combust. Just as his lips brushed hers, before he could so much as taste her, the door to the kitchen swung open, creaking as it did. He opened his eyes, preparing to kick the arse of whoever it was who was standing in the doorway. Draco clenched his fists, still resting against Hermione’s back, now shaking with restraint. Hermione’s eyes fluttered open and she pulled back from him, a dejected and slightly irate look in her gold-flecked eyes. “Oh,” The intruding female said. Draco and Hermione both turned toward the voice, finding the pyjama-clad figure of Lavender Brown standing in the doorway, her eyes wide. “Merry Christmas  _ indeed _ .” She said, smirking slightly, in a way that was almost Slytherin-like, as if she had caught them doing something truly indecent. Draco squared his jaw, fixing her with a glare that could slice skin.

Hermione forced a polite smile on her face, smoothing down her wild hair in an attempt to look less flustered, pushing a lock of it behind her ear, the same lock, in fact, that Draco had pushed back earlier. “Good morning, Lavender. Merry Christmas.” She said. Draco internally, and maybe externally too, rolled his eyes at Hermione’s attempt to pretend as if they hadn’t just been about to make out, or possibly more than that. Lavender gave her a bright smile, too bright a smile for this early in the morning. Draco could feel his head begin to ache from just being in her presence. Lavender practically came with a headache; it was a side effect of her often irritating company. 

She turned her head, her long, slept-in curls bouncing as she did, to look at Draco. He didn’t exactly keep his slight dislike of her a secret, which Lavender used to her greatest advantage if she was in a particularly agitating mood. “Morning  _ Draco _ .” Lavender spoke, her voice sarcastically sweet as she spoke his name, his  _ first  _ name, as if she could  _ sense  _ the irritation she was causing him by interrupting them. “Hello, Brown.” He muttered, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his chair. Lavender inclined her head towards him, her eyebrows raising slightly. Hermione placed a hand on his knee, a comfort, gone unseen by Lavender. Her hand was warm, so warm that he could feel in through his pyjama pants. He focused on it, let it seep into him, rather than focusing on his growing irritation. 

“It seems I’ve interrupted something.” She said sweetly, as if fishing for gossip, as she often did, almost as if they were back in Hogwarts again, as if they weren’t all adults whom had killed people, as if they weren’t fighting in a war. Draco opened his mouth to say something that would probably get him hexed, but before he could, Hermione spoke quickly, as if sensing Draco’s impending verbal assault. “Lavender, we’re  _ dating.  _ We have been for  _ months.  _ We sleep in the same room. You know this already; I don’t know why it surprises you that we were kissing. All the same, it’s none of your business that we were doing. Let it go.” Lavender’s cheeks flushed the slightest tinge of pink, but it vanished a moment later. “What are you doing up this early, anyway, Brown? That is, if you don’t mind my asking.” Draco said, looking down at his fingernails with disinterest. Lavender was often known to be up in the middle of the night, or at odd hours, as during the Battle of Hogwarts, she was bitten by Fenrir Greyback, a near fatal bite that left her with a nasty scar on her throat and a rather severe condition of lycanthropy. But as far as Draco knew, they weren’t notably close to the full moon. 

The blonde girl strode into the room and began sifting through the cabinets, looking for something as she spoke. “I couldn’t sleep, you know how it is,” She said, turning her head around to face them before going back to the cabinet. “Now that the sun’s rising, I thought that I might as well make myself a cuppa. Do either of you care for one, while I’m up?” She asked, snatching the breakfast tea down from the high shelf, where Percy must have put it. “I’m alright, thank you.” Hermione said, glancing back at the now-cold, mug of sugar milk sitting forgotten on the table. “Draco, how about you?” Lavender said as she grabbed the kettle from the back burner and began to fill it, lighting the stove with her wand. “No tea for me.” Draco said flatly, lifting up his half-empty glass of whiskey, drinking down a small sip of it. Lavender eyed Draco’s glass, looking curiously at the bottle, a little less than half left, sitting on the table, but said nothing. 

They all sat silently, Draco and Hermione at the table, Lavender on the countertop as she waited for the water to boil. After what seemed like an eternity, the kettle finally whistled, screeching at a volume that was sure to wake up someone, but Lavender didn’t seem to care, pouring it into an old blue ceramic mug. She allowed her tea to steep, silence filling the room once more. Without even realizing he was doing it, Draco was staring at Hermione, at her slight unease, at the way she bit her lip, the way her fingers twitched and how she seemed to be trying to still them, to no avail. He wanted to reach out his hand, to cover hers with his own, to still the tremors, the worries that seemed to return under the weight of the silence. He didn’t even notice he was staring until he felt Lavender’s eyes on him, piercing into the side of his face, not accusingly, but purely, well, maybe not purely, observing. Draco’s eyes snapped to her, still sitting on the counter, her tea next to her, just out of her reach, as she stared on, not just at Draco, but at both of them. It felt like an invasion of privacy, the way she was looking at him made him feel as if she’d ransacked his bedroom, peered inside his mind. 

A moment later, Lavender’s eyes met his. They were filled with something he couldn’t identify, something akin to longing. She released a breath before sliding off the counter, back onto the floor with a slight thump, causing Hermione to look up from her hands, almost startled. “Alright,” Lavender said, her voice loud, as per usual. “I’m going to go watch telly before Seamus gets up and hogs it. If I have to watch one more of those brainless comedy films, I might kill him.” Neither Draco nor Hermione said anything, just watching as she headed out of the room, hesitating for a moment in the doorway, her eyes on Hermione. “Your necklace is gorgeous, by the way, Hermione.” She said lightly, all the falsity gone from her voice, her eyes flickering to Draco for the barest moment before she flounced out the door, cuppa in hand. Hermione’s hand went absently to the pendant at her neck, a small smile gracing her lips. 

Draco leaned forward slightly, reaching for his glass with his free hand, taking a long sip. He welcomed the familiar burn as it trickled down his throat. “I’m definitely not drunk enough to handle this shit today.” He said, looking on at the bottle in front of him. Hermione lifted her hand to stop him from putting the glass down, taking it from him. He chuckled as he let her take it, watching as she took a sip, shuddering as it went down. “You know,” He said as she placed the glass back down on the table. “For someone who claims she doesn’t like firewhiskey, you do seem to drink it an awful lot.” Hermione turned to him, giving him a challenging look before breaking into a smirk. “I  _ don’t _ like it. I much prefer Butterbeer, you know that, but we don’t seem to have any of that lying around, do we? This is all we have. Besides, you’re always drinking it around me. You  _ taste  _ like it. So pardon me, if I have developed a tolerance for the stuff.” Draco felt the smile taking form on his face before he could even stifle it. Hermione’s face was rapidly turning a shade of fuschia, flooding from her ears, to her cheeks, to her neck. She started talking again before he could open up his mouth to say something. “You’re a bad influence on me, Malfoy, you know that? I mean, of course you do. Just look at that smug look on your face.” She hit him lightly on the cheek before travelling to hold his face in her hand. He just quirked an eyebrow at her and snatched his glass from where she placed it on the table.

“Alright,” Draco said, sighing rather loudly, polishing off what was left in the glass after her sip. “We should probably get ready before Cormac gets to the bathroom. Once he goes in, he won’t come out until he deems himself presentable and we all know how long that takes.” Hermione laughed, a beautiful sound that he could hear forever and never get sick of it. Draco lifted the bottle of firewhiskey, which, he noted, was only a little bit less than halfway filled. He poured himself one last glass, offering some to Hermione, which she politely declined. Draco’s heart ached as he looked at the amber liquid swirling around in his tumbler. He knew what he had to do, but it physically pained him to have to do so again. 

Another death. Another one fallen. Another one lost to this war. It made him sick just to think about it, to think about how many times he’s sat in this very spot, drinking for the same reason. It made him sick to think about how many they’d lost, not just in this safehouse, but in this war as a whole; it was nauseating. He wasn’t quite sure how much longer he could stand it before he went mad. He was already going mad. Madness was a cancer, imbedded deep inside his brain, incurable and ever-spreading. This was just advancing it further. No person should have to experience the trials, the sufferings that war brought. The pressure was too much for any one person to handle.

He couldn’t let himself think about the empty chair that would be at dinner tonight, about the presents that would sit under the tree with his name on it, unclaimed, unopened forever. Anthony. The war took everything from him; it changed him, distorted him into something he didn’t recognize, someone he couldn’t go on being. That resonated with Draco more than he would ever admit, especially to Hermione. She worries too much as it is. He saw a mirror of himself in Anthony, in the way he felt. Some days, no amount of showers could wash off the blood that coated his skin, his soul. His ledger was stained dark red, no amount of wringing it out would rid him of it. Some days, when he looked in the mirror he didn’t always recognize the man who looked back. The man with bruises smudged below his bloodshot eyes, with hollowed-in cheeks. The man who was covered in scars, large and small, each a reminder of the horrors he’d seen, endured. 

So he’d drink. He’d drink to Anthony, to the person he was, kind and brave, if irritating sometimes. He’d drink to his memory, to honor it, in any way that he could. He’d drink in the hopes that Anthony would finally grasp the peace he was so longing to have. He’d drink for Michael, for the pain this will cause him when he wakes, the breath-stealing grief he will feel. He’d drink to grieve his losses, Anthony’s, his own, all of theirs. He’d drink for the people they used to be, to the people they could have been, under any other circumstances than these. He’d drink to the people the war forced them to become, to the sins they committed and the losses they endured. He’d drink for an end to this damn war, an end to all the death and destruction around them. 

Draco stole a glance at Hermione and saw that her head was down, staring at her hands in her lap blankly. She seemed to be waiting for him, waiting for the words she knew were coming, the words to complete the ritual. Draco felt his eyes burning, felt his throat restricting in protest, forcing him to swallow hard. Sensing his unrest, Hermione laid a hand on the one Draco had rested on the table, comfort emanating from it. He took a long breath in and held it for precisely six seconds before releasing it in a slow breath in an attempt to hold back the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. He blinked them back, not allowing even a single one to fall. Tears were too often spilt, these days.

Finally, Draco mustered up all the strength he had left in him and channeled it into lifting his glass into the air in a toast. Taking a breath, he spoke, his voice coming out quieter, weaker than he wanted it to. “Anthony Goldstein,” He said, the words coming harsh and broken, in a way that only Hermione, Theo, and his Mother had ever heard him speak. It was the voice of a man who lost so much, so young, a man broken, shattered, by the world he lived in. “May he find the peace we’re all seeking.” Draco closed his eyes as he brought the glass to his lips, drinking the whiskey in three desperate gulps. His throat burned just as wholly as his eyes did, his grief eating at him like a flame, in careful, deliberate licks. 

Only when he was sure he wasn’t going to fall apart, did Draco open his eyes once more. Hermione was gazing at him with soft eyes, looking at him as if she needed to shield him from the pain of this world. His mother had been the only one to look at him like that. No one had cared for him enough to look at him as such, but now, Hermione stared at him, her eyes wide and fierce, soft and loving, all at the same time. It was the same way he looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention, and sometimes, even when she was. It filled him with an indefinable warmth, one that scared him as much as it comforted him. 

Hermione leant forward and brushed a bit of fringe out of his eye that he hadn’t noticed was there. Then, she stood, offering her hand to him, compassion at the forefront of her expression. He capped the bottle, still a decent amount left in it, and, with a wave of his wand, banished it to his bedroom for safekeeping. He then took her hand, standing up out of the chair on unsteady legs, buckling under the weight of this world. Hermione gave his hand a squeeze and a small smile, a sad one, full of understanding. He pressed a kiss to her temple, trying to convey his thanks, words seeming almost impossible now. He allowed her to lead him out of the room, only stopping in the doorway to turn off the lights. As he followed her out he thought,  _ I would follow her to the ends of the earth if I had to, if only to be near her _ , and he found, that that thought didn’t scare him nearly as much as it should have, and he wasn’t even drunk enough to justify it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, as I said, I hope to get the next chapter out as soon as possible. Hopefully, it won't be nearly as long of a wait, as I should be having a lot more free time to write soon.
> 
> Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think of this chapter, or the story as a whole with comments and kudos, as I love hearing feedback from my readers; it truly means the world to me. 
> 
> Feel free to follow me on my tumblr at Dilemma-ed (followbacks and likes on dil-emma-ed) for updates on this story and my other one, fic recs, and general posts about HP and other books!
> 
> Until next time,  
> -Em


	12. Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Once again, it's been way too long since I posted (are you really surprised anymore?). Anyway, I'm back with another chapter, one that I have been anticipating writing since I began writing this story, back when it was intended to be a one-shot. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> As always, a HUGE thank you to my beta, closer-to-monkey for all of the amazing work she does for me and this story:)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Em

Forty-seven days, not even two months from Christmas, from Anthony’s death, from the night Draco had given Hermione his mother’s necklace, Draco and Hermione were in the kitchen once more. It was a quiet night, almost dead silent in the safehouse. So quiet that the only sound was their breathing. Everyone had, for the most part, gone to sleep, or at least, were trying to, but they remained awake, though ever-tired, neither of them could think about resting. Not now, no. Not when the house was  _ so  _ damn quiet, when the cold air seemed to seep through the magically insulated home, when the tension in the air was thick enough that it made it difficult to breathe.

It was February, the snow still blanketed across the Scotland landscape beyond the walls around them. The stars, in their sheer brightness, like diamonds, glittered across the untouched white terrain, the moon radiating light that seemingly bounced off of the snow, illuminating the world in a romantic shroud. It would have been beautiful, if only he could get the battle out of his head, if he could just  _ stop _ thinking, if only the snow outside wasn’t stained with all of their blood, with  _ her  _ blood.  _ So much blood _ . He shut his eyes tight, forcing out a breath as he pushed the thought, the image out of his mind, though it remained just on the edge of his conscious mind, demanding to be seen. Just thinking about what happened, what  _ could  _ have happened, set his teeth on edge, laboured his breathing, gave him tunnel vision. 

The mission tonight had been a difficult one, but, then again, it was never easy, that was why this war hadn’t yet ended. There was intel that Voldemort’s forces were to launch an attack not too far away from a rather important Order safehouse in Northern Ireland. Their mission was simple: don’t allow the Death Eaters to get close, within any sort of range to the house. But of course, this mission had gone almost immediately wrong. They had lost another tonight to this never-ending war, as if lives were something as replaceable, as dispensable as a child’s doll. It was as if they weren’t people anymore, just names, just numbers to be used and thrown away. 

Lavender Brown, the once bubbly, gossipy girl from Gryffindor who once dated Weasley, had died brutally tonight. She was the twenty-eighth resident to die since Draco began living here. That number was too large. Twenty-eight people too large. Draco didn’t know  _ too  _ many personal details about her, only from what he had observed over the time she’d lived in the house, which was longer than so many lasted. She was still a gossip, right to the very end, remaining intrigued in Draco and Hermione’s relationship, meddling at every chance she got to the point where Draco would have hexed her if Hermione hadn’t stopped him. She could also be incorrigibly irritating when she wanted to be, as well as downright stubborn, but, then again, she was a Gryffindor. Turned a lycanthrope at the age of seventeen, Lavender had a nasty streak if there ever was one, almost unrecognizable from how she was on a day to day basis. It made her a good fighter, if a little temperamental at times. She was still another person lost, one less person to fight, to defend for what’s right.

Lavender had fallen to an unidentifiable curse that left her insides so fucked up that they gave out, exploding in a rather gruesome scene. Those who’d seen it up close, Draco included, had vomited at the sight of her, not being able to help it. He’d never seen a curse like it before, no one had, which only meant that the Death Eaters were just getting even more ruthless than they had been in the past. Not even Hermione could decipher what it was, not that they had much time before the Death Eaters swarmed. Lovegood had told him that it was Draco’s old friend, not so much of a friend than a blindly loyal follower, Gregory Goyle who’d done it. It ached him a bit to say that it didn’t surprise him as much as it should have. 

Much like Pansy, Greg was one to follow orders without a second thought, which pretty much summed up their ‘friendship’. Voldemort had come knocking, offering him a place in his army and Greg hadn’t even given it a second thought. When Draco switched sides on that fateful day at Hogwarts, Greg had been one of the first to shout slander at him, copying what his father had yelled seconds before. Not even Crabbe’s death had been enough to convince him of that waste of a cause. He’d turned into quite the nasty little shit, as clinically dumb as he always had been. There was not a single thought in his head that was his own, his entire life controlled by the whims of another. It was sad, really. It didn’t matter though; Lavender Brown was dead, another person, another resident gone, leaving the ever-returning hole in the house’s core open. He’d just barely seen it happen, seen her lying there in a pool of bodily fluid and blood, as he had taken out a masked Death Eater only seconds before, turning his head just in time to see it.

Now, Draco found himself standing in the kitchen rather than sitting, pacing with the heels of his hands pressed into his eye sockets, a feeling of ire coursing through his veins. It was more present than the nagging, pounding pain radiating through his shoulder. His glass of Firewhiskey sat empty, waiting to be refilled, on the table next to the bottle, which was about half-gone at this point. He’d been drinking since they had gotten back, guzzling it down as if he were on the brink of death by dehydration. He needed it tonight. He hoped it might calm him down, but he was just as enraged as he had been since he began. 

Hermione sat in what had become her chair, sitting as rigidly as she could. He’d just finished making her a mug of sugar milk, the muggle way, which he still struggled with, despite the many times she’d taught him how. He’d burned himself twice trying to make the damn thing for her. She hadn’t said a word, save ‘thank you’, since they’d come in here, as if the silence in the house was as contagious as death. Her right hand was curled around her mug loosely, her fingertips lying gently against the ceramic, while her left one clutched at her bandaged mid-section protectively. She was wearing one of his shirts, a plain black one that hung loosely around her so as not to further irritate her wounds. She was in no state to be sitting up, to be out here rather than in bed, but she’d insisted, pleaded with him that she couldn’t lie there any longer. If he didn’t think she’d actually hex him for it, he would have drugged her asleep for the night. 

He could hear her struggle with each breath, the whimper, a noise akin to a dying dog, that slipped through her lips, though she tried to suppress it. Her body shuddered in agony with each breath, looking so damn fragile he felt his heart sputter at the sight. His Hermione, his Gryffindor, his Lioness. She was so weak, wheezing, shaking, pale to the point of translucent. He’d never seen her, his beautiful, brilliant Hermione, his avenging angel, quite so injured, so physically broken.

He poured himself more alcohol and choked back the amber liquid in one gulp, slamming it down onto the table so hard and so abruptly that she jumped a bit. “Why, why couldn’t you just listen to me, Granger? Was it really that  _ damn  _ difficult for your Gryffindor brain to just  _ listen to me? _ ” He grumbled, the anger slipping through his lips, unable to hold it in any longer. He knew once he started, he wasn’t going to be able to swallow it back down. He was furious, absolutely furious. His blood was boiling in rage. “Because I wasn’t just going to leave you there alone to defend the house!” She forced out, wincing at the contraction of her chest, at the sheer strength it took for her to speak that loudly, to take that deep of a breath. He clenched a fist and took in a sharp inhale, forcing back the memory of what had happened.

_ During their mission tonight, Aberforth gave Draco the task of defending a safehouse in Northern Ireland from attack, as there were too many important things inside, plans, information, to lose it. They evacuated the house as quickly as possible, but some of the information inside was unattainable in the time that they were given before leaving, so, Draco guarded. Last night, the Fidelius charm on the house was broken when the secretkeeper for it, Filius Flitwick, the former Hogwarts Charms professor, was captured and then tortured through the cruciatus, or worse, lowering his occlumency shields just enough to gain the information, before murdering him. It was said that it was Lucius, Draco’s bastard of a father, who had been the one to do it. It didn’t even surprise him anymore, the lengths his father would go to to inflict cruelty, suffering onto others. _

_ Lavender Brown was assigned to defend the house with him tonight, something he was dreading, as, she never stopped her incessant yapping, but, almost as soon as they’d gotten there, she’d been taken off guard by a rogue curse that left her splattered against the ground so inhumanely, he’d lost the contents of his stomach. He almost felt bad about dreading her company. Now she was gone. They didn’t have a single soldier to spare to guard with him; they needed every last person on the field. Choosing Draco to guard was a strategic decision; he was their best fighter, therefore the most fit to work alone.  _

_ Now, he’d just arrived at the house, taking up a post outside where he could see a wide range of the landscape surrounding. From this position at the house, he had the best vantage point, covering as much of the house as he could, being only one man. It was quiet all around, but he could see the lights bursting as the fighting raged on in the distance, illuminating the sky in an array of terrifying color. It was as if he was watching one of those silent films that Hermione would watch sometimes when they would wake up in the middle of the night.  _

_ Speaking of Hermione, his blood was still broiling from the argument they had had, moments before Draco had trudged his way up to the safehouse. She had wanted to come with him, to guard the house by his side in Lavender’s absence, but Aberforth had commanded her elsewhere, instead, stationed on the field. She wanted to come anyway, not wanting to leave him alone. It was safer for her to remain where she was stationed, to be in the field rather than guarding the house. The worst of the Death Eaters, the most sinister, would be up here, garnering information from the house. The battle was a mere distraction, filled with low-level followers, some who hadn’t yet earned their masks. It wasn’t that she wasn’t capable, she’s more than so, but he didn’t want to risk her when he didn’t have to. He couldn’t afford to lose her. There was a twinge in his chest at the the mere thought. She had become a part of him, growing into the cracks and crevices of his mending heart like an ivy. He needed her safe, needed it in a way that scared him to his core, even if safe wasn’t by his side. Besides, he could handle this by himself tonight. _

_ He stood there for a few moments, just breathing in the cold air, condensing in the air as he exhaled in a cloud of vapor, looking out at the world, the peaceful quiet that threatened to overwhelm his senses. The cool february breeze gave him a chill, but he fought it off, keeping his stance rigid, ready for battle, his wand in a loose grip in his hand. His eyes darted through the treeline, trying to make out shapes and shadows in the darkness, calculating animal movement from that of a human, or creature for that matter. The fingers of his non-dominant hand twitched, aching for the feel of a cigarette between them. _

_ He was there for all of ten minutes when he heard a rustling in the forest, a light one, coming from someone who was practiced at trying to go unnoticed, at staying near silent. Draco took a step forward, and then another, focusing on the section of the forest where the noise had come from. He raised his wand as he heard another rustle, keeping his breathing as silent as possible so as not to alert the person of his movement towards them. He held his breath as he took yet another step forward, followed by someone stepping on a branch. He raised his wand more, training his eyes on the exact spot he had heard the noise from. “ _ Homenum Revelio. _ ” He whispered. He allowed his wand to lead him, to bring him to where exactly the rustle was coming from. A few more steps to the southwest and he saw a crouched figure. He felt a curse bubble up on his lips, but before he could say anything, the figure stood. _

_ He almost dropped his wand at the sight of her.  _ Hermione. _ His breath caught as he immediately began to shake his head, the rage building up in his blood again. She was supposed to stay away from this shitshow, not join him. He needed her safe, and tonight, safe was not by his side, ironically enough, it was the battlefield. But there she stood, shoulders back, her hair pulled into a long braid down her back, a curl already escaping to frame her face. She had a fierce expression on, the one that clearly identified her as the Gryffindor she was. Her armband stood out stark against her back clothing, marking her as apart of the Order. “The fuck are you going to do with that?” Hermione said, gesturing to the outstretched wand in his hand. He glanced down at it, dropping it back down to his side. “Merlin  _ fucking  _ hell, Hermione,” He said, smacking her lightly on the arm. “Don’t do that. I thought you were a Death Eater! I almost hexed you.” She rolled her eyes at him, brushing past him as she began to walk back towards the house. Draco grabbed her wrist, pulling her back so that their faces were a hair’s breadth away.  _

_ Her determined expression was betrayed by one of shock, only for a moment as she stumbled over a root, before it returned, as wilful as he’d ever seen her. “Go back to the field, Hermione.” He said, his voice even, one he used when he was giving commands on the field. He scarcely used it with her, he never had to, never wished to. She could usually tell what he was thinking from a single look, from the energy that radiated off of him. She always knew where to be, knew the best strategy, but now, he wasn’t sure what to say to make her leave, to make her abandon him there to return to her post. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, so I’m going to help you. It’s a two-man job. You can’t possible manage to cover the whole house on your own.” She tried again to walk away, but his grip tightened slightly and she stopped, shooting him a glare, something rarely reserved for him. “I don’t need help! I can handle it on my own! Please, Hermione.” He said, his voice growing quieter, more desperate, but still strong as he spoke.  _

_ “Draco, there is nothing you can do to make me go back short of imperius-ing me. It’s not safe for you to be on guard here alone. You were  _ supposed _ to have a partner, why can’t that partner be me? I’m perfectly capable of helping you!” She said, her voice a furious whisper, so as not to alert any Death Eaters of their location. Draco set his jaw, ire coursing through his veins as he spoke, “You were stationed down on the battlefield. You shouldn’t even be here! Aberforth will be furious if he finds out you were even up here, let alone that I let you stay. He gave you, specifically you,  _ explicit _ instructions to stay your post and not to follow me up here, but you did it anyway! I don’t need help, it’s okay. Go back to your post. I don’t need to be saved, Hermione.” His heart ached as he looked at her, as it struggled to sort between its desire to give her anything she wished and his primal need to protect her from harm.  _

_ The look he received in turn reminded him of why he rarely argued with her: she always won. She was as stubborn as a blast-ended skrewt when she wanted to be, and it was of no use to fight with her when she got like this. It was the sodding Gryffindor inside of her; when she set her mind to something, she was unstoppable. It was one of the things he most admired about her, not of course, when it was working against her best interest. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything happened to her. It would be wholly his own fault, not anyone else’s, for letting her stay.  _

_ He sighed, giving Hermione one last desperate plea, hoping to all deities that she would listen to him, that she would see past her desire to protect him and instead protect herself, despite knowing that she never would. She was too selfless for that. “Neither do I.” She whispered, her brown eyes never wavering away from his silver ones, matching him, expression for expression. The words burned as she spoke them. He knew better than anyone what Hermione was capable of, of the strength, the brilliance, the stealth, the sheer raw talent she possesses.  _

_ As much as he hated it, as much as he wished that she would go back to the field, he knew he would lose this battle, no matter how hard he fought, no matter how much it ached. “I’m staying, Draco. End of argument. They don’t need me down there. You’ll need me. I’m not a liability; I’m an asset. I’m a soldier too, and a damn good one at that. You will do well to remember it.” She said, almost sneering, her eyes filled with golden fire that burned behind her eyes, raging hot despite the frigid expression on her face. She was terrifying when she was like this, but sometimes, he thought, it was when she was most beautiful. In that moment, he feared for her enemies, that might underestimate her, his Hermione.  _

_ Draco dropped her wrist and nodded, whispering, so quietly that the words were barely loud enough to reach Hermione, “I never forgot.” Her cold expression melted away like ice on a spring day, her eyes warming to him in the wake of their argument, a crackling, woody brown, bursting with gold. She gave him a small smile, just the barest quirk of her lip before lifting her hand to brush his cheek, resting it there. He wanted to close his eyes, to lean in at the feel of her touch against his skin, but there was no time. So rather than relish in the heat of her hand, seeping into his windburnt skin, he looked at her, trying to convey as much in the expression as he possibly could. He tried to tell her all the things he meant to, tell her the reasons why it physically pained him to let her stay, tell her to be careful, tell her that he would lose his mind if anything happened to her here tonight. Her eyes scanned his face thoughtfully, though he couldn’t tell if she was able to read him. _

_ She dropped her hand from his face, saying, “C’mon, let’s get back to the house before they come.” Her voice was low, but light. She schooled her expression into one of resolve and turned from him, beginning to walk away. Draco nodded, following behind her as she walked back towards the house, promising himself that she would be okay, that she wouldn’t get hurt. As if sensing his thought, she looked over her shoulder to him, stating softly, “I’ll be okay, Draco.” Then, she kept on walking before stationing herself to the right of him. _

_ They stood in a heavy silence, scouting the area, watching the fight from above. They listened through the trees for any noises that would alert them of the Death Eaters’ arrival to retrieve the information, but so far there was nothing out of the sort. It was strange. Neither said a word, only accompanied by the sounds of breathing, but occasionally, Draco would glance over at her, at the determination written across her face as plainly as the day. The set of her jaw, the fire burning behind her eyes, her stance; she was ready for a battle.  _

_ It felt like an eternity later when he finally heard the crack of apparition from the woods. After the first, several more followed, overlapping so that he couldn’t keep count. He immediately jumped into a battle stance, pulling his wand from the holster on his forearm, his scarred one. He took a step forward, cracking the joints in his neck with a fierce pop, causing him to suppress an audible groan. He could hear them approaching, mumbling, rustling as they grew closer. If there was one thing to be said about Death Eaters, they certainly weren’t subtle. They didn’t even try to hide their arrival from them. And from the sound of it, there were quite a few of them coming. _

_ “Draco,” He heard Hermione’s voice, barely audible over the rushing that was beginning to build in his ears. The Death Eaters were getting closer. They only had a few more minutes before they would arrive, judging by how far away the sounds were. He turned to find her looking at him, gold eyes blazing. In the moonlight he could see the gleam of the white-gold chain around her neck, the pendant he gave her hidden, resting under the neckline of her turtleneck shirt. She never took it off, not to sleep, to shower, to have sex, not even for battle. Not for a single moment since he’d given it to her. It comforted him to know that a piece of him was always with her. “If we both stay on this side of the house, they’ll swarm to the exposed area and pass right through us. I’ll take the south side, you stay here. That way, we aren’t concentrating all our efforts on one side.” It was an order he would have given. It was the right choice, the smart choice.  _

_ Draco nodded, knowing that she was right, despite the queasy feeling it gave him. He shook it off, replying, “All right,” He said, “You take the south.” He affirmed, nodding towards the south side of the house. Hermione nodded once, giving him a meaningful look before turning away from him, beginning to walk away to her post. Draco was unable to take his eyes off of her back, and spoke before he could stop himself. “Hermione,” He called, scolding himself for the nervous feeling in his gut. They didn’t do goodbyes. It didn’t suit, didn’t seem right. No, goodbyes were final. This was not a goodbye, it was a ‘see you later’. When Hermione looked over her shoulder at him, her braid cascading down her back, he found himself for a moment, at a loss of what to say. “I–,” He spoke, stopping himself, shaking his head and starting again, “Don’t die, Granger.” The moment the words left his lips, he wanted to smack himself across the face. But Hermione only smiled, “Likewise, Malfoy.” _

_ Draco turned away, knowing that if he tried to watch her walk away, he would call her back to him again. A moment later, before he even had a chance to do a full scan of the forested area, he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder. He spun around quickly and was met with Hermione’s lips on his, gentle and bruising. Draco’s heart pounded at the intoxicating taste of her, the one that had become too familiar to him in the past months.  They moved in tandem against each other, matching each other’s movements, anticipating them as if they were their own. Draco felt her melt into him as his fingers slid into the silky hair at the nape of her neck, his hand hooked around her hip, pressing her to him. Hermione’s lips moved against his own, as if trying to tell him something, her fingers ghosting his jaw, gripping the front of his shirt. There was a hidden desperation in the way she kissed him, a heat burning within it, a raging flame. She kissed him hard, she kissed him soft, nipping his lip, swirling her tongue, as if trying to taste every bit of him possible. He kissed her back just as fervently, groaning as she finally pulled away, resting her forehead, for the barest moment, against Draco’s. _

_ The kiss wasn’t nearly long enough, an eternity and a second, though in actuality was probably a minute. When Hermione opened her eyes, they found his in an instant. Her calloused, yet soft fingertips brushed against his lips in a way that made his eyes flutter shut involuntarily for a moment. “Come back to me.” She whispered, the words warm against his skin, her face still bare inches away from him. So close, but too far. They were his words, words he spoke to her months ago, a plea, a question, a confession. His jaw twitched as he swallowed, “Always.” He murmured softly, allowing the weight of his words–her words–sink into the space between them. He wanted to stay there, in that moment, for her to stay, not to walk away, for the Death Eaters to freeze in time so that he didn’t have to leave her warmth, to let her walk away from him when the crack of a branch nearby caused them to jump apart, Hermione pulling back her hand as if it had caught flame. _

_ Without another word, she jogged off to the other side of the house, her braid bouncing as she did, another curl escaping its plaited prison. Draco barely had enough time to ready himself, shake his thoughts from Hermione, from the way he could still feel her taste on his tongue, his lips, still smell her scent of strawberries and vanilla, stuck in his nose, before a flicker of a silver mask caught his eye. Immediately, Draco drew his wand, taking out the approaching Death Eater with a stunner before he even caught wind that Draco had seen him. _

_ Another appeared not long after, managing to take a few steps towards the house before Draco struck him down. Before he was even aware of him, another one managed to grab Draco from the side, a wand now pressed firmly against his temple, an arm around his middle, nearly taking him off of his feet. His blood was pulsing through his veins at a rapid pace as he focused on the situation at hand. He needed to disarm the man, who had a clear advantage at the moment. He was larger than Draco, built like a brick wall, his rancid breath stinging his nose. If there were any scent that would clear him of Hermione’s ambrosia, that would be it. Draco allowed himself a moment to hesitate, to throw off the man holding him, who seemed to be muttering something to him, but Draco couldn’t hear over the static of his own thoughts and the rushing of his blood.  _

_ Without waiting another moment, Draco threw his head back against the man holding him, slamming it into the Death Eater’s mask, resulting in a sickening  _ crack _. Judging by the immediate way he let go of him and the girlish yelp that escaped him, he had broken the Death Eater’s nose. He was thoroughly distracted and equally agitated, swearing that he would “Rip out his mudblood-loving organs and make him a noose out of them.” Lovely. With a smirk, Draco sent a particularly strong stunner towards the man as he continued to swear, knocking him to the ground cold with a resounding thump just as he was about to retaliate. He would have killed him, if his orders hadn’t been to stun only, as, the Order and their infinite wisdom wanted to bring them in for questioning. As if these men would know anything. No, they were just sent to do the dirty work.  _

_ Draco managed to take out at least twelve Death Eaters on his side of the house before they stopped coming. He had been fighting for over an hour on and off before they finally retreated. He couldn’t manage to wipe the satisfied smirk off of his face, but at the same, time, couldn’t shake the same queasy feeling he had before. He was worried about Hermione, though he knew that she was fine. She would have sent up sparks if she needed his help. That is, of course, if she wasn’t being the noble Gryffindor she could sometimes be, the one who rejected any and all help, even if something had gone horribly wrong.  _

_ After waiting an additional ten minutes once he was sure there was no one else coming for his side of the house, against his better judgement, he decided to go to see how Hermione was fairing. He jogged across the grass, around the bend of the house to where he could hear Hermione in the height of a duel, shouting spells, breathing heavily. Once he caught sight of her, his beautiful Hermione, he nearly lost all the breath in his lungs. The way she fought never ceased to amaze him. Every time he watched her, it was as if he were in a trance; she was so graceful, like a dancer on a stage, weaving her way around. She was exquisite; the way she waltzed with her opponent, a man who was twice her size and, judging by his clumsy movements, was at least a few years younger than she is. She managed to outsmart him at every turn, using her size, her speed as her advantage. He wasn’t able to keep up with her for very long before she struck him down with a silent stunner that swept him off of his feet and onto his back in the dirt.  _

_ He watched her as she took down another, without even turning to fully face her opponent. She had managed to get him down in one shot. Then there was another, one that put up more of a fight. He was a large, hulking figure that seemed as if he could encase her in his shadow, but moved more nimbly than her earlier opponent, meeting blow after blow with one of his own. Once again, he became entranced by her, by the way she moved, the glow that seemed to surround her, the light that followed her, encased her. The Golden Girl. Despite the frigid chill, even from this distance, he could see beads of sweat forming on Hermione’s forehead, glistening in the moonlight as she fought, and fought, and fought. She shot off stunner after stunner, hex after hex, and soon, curse after curse, but she never wavered.  _

_ She finally managed to best him, knocking him to the ground with a  _ bombarda,  _ and stunning him immediately afterwards, before he had a chance to lift his head, let alone his wand, from the ground. Hermione smiled, a beautiful, victorious smile, before finally releasing the breath she had been holding since he had almost hit her in her wand arm with a necrosis curse. She had been shaken, but didn’t hesitate any longer than a second, firing back with even more tenacity.  _

_ But as Hermione stopped to catch her breath, believing there to be no more Death Eaters to defeat, beyond her notice, and Draco’s, another shot out of the forest, and before Hermione could prepare herself, a curse came bounding full-force into her, knocking her to the ground with a force that echoed across the silent landscape. The scream, the shriek, that came out of Hermione shook the world, or at least, shook his. She sounded so pained, the sound so blood-curdling that it was almost animalistic, but he’d know that voice anywhere. The last time she screamed like that, he did nothing, he stood by, allowing unspeakably evil things to happen to her at the hands of his aunt. He would  _ not _ let that happen to her today. He would not stand by. _

_ The whole world seemed to stop at that moment in a way so dizzying, Draco could not manage to catch his breath. It seemed to happen in an instant and an eternity, trapping him in that moment, that horrible moment. For a moment, Draco wasn’t sure if he could move, wasn’t sure if he were able to move his feet from the spot in which they were rooted, but somehow, he was running. He was running, running, running, and it wasn’t fast enough. It never could be. His feet were moving independent of his body, guiding him to the place he needed to be before his brain could manage to catch up.  _

_ The Death Eater approached Hermione quickly, quicker than Draco could run, placing a large foot on her chest and pressed down until there was a crack that seemed to have resounded into the marrow of Draco’s bones, into the cracks in his heart, his soul. His heart constricted as he ran, running faster than he ever had in his life, still feeling as if it he were going slow as molasses. He felt trapped in a nightmare, as if, the faster he ran, the further away she became. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing, but it didn’t matter. None of it did, so long as he managed to get to her.  _

_ As Draco finally,  _ finally _ got close enough, without taking his eyes off of Hermione’s cowering, seizing, struggling figure, he lifted his wand and shouted a killing curse at the man standing over her. In his peripheral vision, he saw the man’s body collapse in a heap on the muddy ground. He didn’t even care that he’d just killed a man, that he defied his orders  _ not  _ to kill. No, nothing mattered unless he got to Hermione. He needed to, like he needed oxygen. With every step, he heard a voice in his head shouting, ‘your fault, your fault’, reverberating in his skull until the thought was all-consuming. _

_ When he finally reached her, he didn’t remember his knees hitting the ground as he dropped down next to her, he didn’t remember putting a hand to her face, cradling it, ice cold to the touch from the brisk weather and the blood she already lost. He didn’t remember anything other than  _ her _ , than the anguish that was glittering in her golden eyes, than the blood, oh, the blood. It was  _ everywhere _. There was so much of it, pooling underneath her body, underneath his knees, that, for a moment, he was unable to locate where it was coming from. But as soon as he managed to focus enough, his breath caught in his chest, constricting, choking him, as he saw the giant, gaping wound in her midsection. That was an understatement. Her stomach was ripped open, torn to shreds. Looking at it felt like getting a knife to the chest, to the heart. _

_ He knew he was muttering, talking to her, assuring her that she’d be okay, but he couldn’t hear a word of it. No, he couldn’t hear anything other than the struggled hiss of her breath as she tried to breathe, than his heart beating in his ears more erratically than ever before. “Hermione, brace yourself, I’m going to lift you for a moment, only a moment, all right?” He asked, to which she gave him the barest of nods, as if she couldn’t bare any more movement than that. Hermione’s body tensed as she prepared herself, sucking in a breath. He took off his jacket rapidly, lifting her body, which seemed so,  _ so _ very frail at that moment, and wrapped it around her as tightly as he could, so as to staunch the bleeding, if only a little bit. “ _ Tergeo _.” He whispered, his wand shaking as he worked, using the minor healing spells he knew to try and stop the river of blood from rushing from her body. Hermione winced as she took in a breath, her whole body contorting in pain. Tears rushed down her face, burning hot against her skin. “Granger, Hermione,” He said, his voice raspy, weaker than he wished it to be. “Hermione, love, stay with me.  _ Please _.” He emphasized his ‘please’, letting her know, in a word, how much he needed it, needed her.  _

_ Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she struggled to keep them open, as she struggled not to lose consciousness. Draco’s hands were all over, looking, searching desperately for her portkey, but he couldn’t find it. He looked everywhere, looked for something to stop the bleeding, to take away the pain, but as this was supposed to be a low-profile mission, she must have left her necessities back at the house. She didn’t even have Dittany with her. “D-Draco,” She said, the single word came out breathless, laced with agony. He stopped searching for a moment and looked at her. Her golden skin, usually so vibrant, filled with life, was a dull gray, paler than he’d ever seen her. Her cheeks were sallow, devoid of the rosy color that usually garnished them. Her eyes were dim, as if the galaxy of golden stars in them had gone out, leaving only a mute, deadened brown. They were filled with tears, tears of pain, of hopelessness. Her lips were a shade darker than the rest of her face, the color having left them with the blood rushing from her body. The necklace he’d given her gleamed around her bloodless pallor, demanding attention. _

_ “I-I’m o-o-okay.” She forced out, each word weaker than the last. She heaved a breath, shuddering as she did. “L-leave me.” She managed, her eyes closing as she seemed to ride out a wave of agony, fighting back the groan that slipped through her lips. Draco swore his heart broke as the words left her colorless lips. He shook his head, continuing to do whatever his could to slow the bleeding. “Hermione, where’s your portkey?” He asked finally, unable to find it. After inhaling with immense difficulty, she managed to answer him, albeit in three words, “L-lost it r-r-running.” _

_ He felt his heart stop in his chest for a moment as she said so. Lost? Of fucking course it was. Her eyes closed as she finished speaking, the use of speech seemingly stealing away the energy she had left. “ _ Shit _.” He breathed. His hand, now covered in her blood, dark, thick, and warm, came up to her cheek, coaxing her awake, while the other remained on her wound, applying pressure, as the makeshift tourniquet he made had already been soaked through with her blood. “Hermione, stay with me. You have to stay awake. You’re going to be okay.” He said, repeating his words, more for his benefit than hers. Maybe if he kept repeating them, he would eventually believe them.  _

_ Once Hermione opened her eyes again, the brown even duller than it had been before, Draco’s hand immediately went to the chain around his neck: his portkey. He was about to pull it over his head when a delicate, shaking hand wrapped around his wrist and squeezed, ever so slightly. “N-no.” She said. “L-leave, Draco. P-please.” When he began to shake his head, she squeezed his wrist again, this time, with all the strength she seemed to be able to muster, which wasn’t much, and it scared him. “P-protocol.” She said, her eyes carrying a sad, but determined look, that never seemed to fade, not even as her life drained out of her.  _

_ As soon as she said the word, Draco knew what she wanted him to do, what she was asking of him. And he couldn’t deliver. Protocol demands that, in times of desperation, if one man is injured, and is holding up the team, the other(s) must leave without them, even if it means certain death for the one who they were leaving behind. Hermione was asking him to leave her there to die. And yes, she would die if he didn’t get her immediate medical attention. She was bleeding too much, too fast. She was breathing too shallow. He wouldn’t,  _ couldn’t _ abandon her. Not when it meant certain death. No. He couldn’t. It was the one thing in the world he wouldn’t do, the only thing he would ever deny her. How she could ever ask this of him, he didn’t know. “Hermione, I can’t.” With Hermione, he wasn’t going to fail. He wasn’t going to lose her. He was going to get the chance he never had with Theo and his mother and he wasn’t going to waste it. _

_ He ripped his eyes from her face and back down to her wound, scouring away some of the blood, but it continued to replenish relentlessly. “D-Draco, p-please.” She sounded exasperated and so, so tired. When he looked back to her face, her eyes were struggling to stay open. “T-there’s m-more coming.” She muttered, but it was barely audible. “G-g-go.” She shuddered in pain, her face contorting, whimpers slipping through her gritted teeth. He increased the pressure he was putting on her wound in an attempt to push back against the blood pouring out. As he did, he felt her body tense under his touch, her breathing becoming staggered.  _

_ As much as he wished to deny it, she was right. There were more Death Eaters coming. He could hear them in the forest, advancing towards them in their distracted state. Turning around to face them, he only had a minute or two before they would be within firing range. “Shit, shit, shit.” He spoke under his breath, attempting to take his portkey off and give it to her again, but she stopped him, her hand tightening around his wrist. Her fingers were, so, so cold. “No, Draco. No. Just go.” Her voice shook, but she fought the stutter than previously shook her, feigning strength in an attempt to get him to listen, but he wouldn’t.  _

_ If she wasn’t going to let him give her his portkey, he wasn’t just going to leave her there. He would get her out of there, one way or another. “Brace yourself, Granger.” He said, adjusting the jacket wrapped around her to be a bit tighter around her. She looked confused, the hand on his wrist falling to his chest, knitting her fingers loosely into the fabric of his now-bloodied tee-shirt. He took her hands in his and interlocked them behind his neck, albeit, weakly. Her eyes were falling shut again as he placed an arm under her knees and another behind her back. Before she could realize what he was doing, he lifted her into the air, clutching her as close to him as humanly possible.  _

_ Eyes fluttering open, Hermione began to struggle against him with what little strength she had, one of her hands coming to push feebly against his chest, but her attempts were to no avail. He wasn’t going to put her down, no matter how much she kicked and screamed against him. She was speaking to him, pleading with him to put her down. She sounded so desperate, so scared. The more times she told him that she was okay, that she was fine, that she wasn’t hurt all that badly, the more breathy she became, the more difficult it was for her to keep eye contact. She knew just as well as he did that she was bleeding out, and that if he didn’t get her back to the house for medical attention soon, then she would die.  _

_ He turned, repositioning her so that he could maneuver his wand. Before drawing his wand, he wiped his hands on his jeans, trying desperately to get some of the slick blood off of it. Then, he flicked his wrist, his wand coming into his hand from his holster, He could feel the warmth, the stickiness of her blood against his skin as she continued to bleed, coating him in red. He felt as if he might be sick for the second time tonight. So. Much. Blood. Coating him, coating her, coating the ground. It made a squelching sound against his boot as he had stood up. It was becoming too much for him. Blood, normally, he could handle. But  _ her  _ blood. That was what he was having such a difficult time digesting. Seeing this blood terrified him more than most things in the world ever could. He shook it off and willed himself to focus on something,  _ anything  _ other than the blood, than the cool feeling of her skin, than the way her eyes now fell shut and no longer fluttered, than the fact that she was losing consciousness. _

_ He raised his wand as the Death Eaters approached, readying himself to fight, despite Hermione’s dead weight in his arms slowing him down. He took a breath, glancing down at Hermione one more time before firing stunners at the oncoming offenders. There were seven of them approaching, and it didn’t seem like there were any more of them following, thank Merlin. Immediately, he struck down the closest, just as the man raised his wand. He hoped that that display might have scared them off, but he knew better than to believe it. The remaining six kept inching closer, aiming spells at Draco and Hermione, firing even crueler ones once they caught sight of the witch he was holding, doused in red. To them, it must look like she was dead, that he was a hopeless fool. He brushed the thought away, not allowing himself to even entertain the thought of Hermione being dead for any longer.  _

_ Draco blocked each spell, countering most of them with ease. He fought hard, his hands shaking as he occasionally glanced down to Hermione. He knew he was probably jostling her a bit too much, but he tried as hard as he could to hold her to him so as to keep her as comfortable as possible. There were only four left now, each advancing on them from a different direction, two of them closer than the others. One of them was maskless, licking his lips as he caught sight of Hermione. He was an ugly man, his face twisted in a sneer, a puckered scar running from his temple to his lip in a jagged line. Breaking the shield he had around them for a moment, he shot at him, knocking him unconscious, but not before a stinging jinx hurled towards them, colliding with Draco’s shoulder. _

_ Blinding pain coursed through it, burning with every beat of his heart. But he held his wand steady, despite the shaking, despite the pain, because he knew he needed to get Hermione out of here, no matter the cost. He was just lucky the man didn’t use a more damaging spell. He could feel the blood oozing out of the wound in his shoulder, slow and warm, but it was nothing compared to the blood Hermione was losing. Shaking out his arm in a feeble attempt to banish the pain, he turned to the remaining Death Eaters, all of them closer than they had been before.  _

_ Without hesitating, Draco shot off three wordless curses in their respective directions. One hit its target, made known to him by a whimper and a thud, while the other were blocked. Two more. Two more and he could take Hermione out of this place. Two more and he could save her. His heart pounded against the confines of his chest, seemingly trying to give some of its strength to Hermione’s weakly beating one. Blood was rushing in his ears, thumping like the beat of a war drum. His shoulder ached, but he refused to give into the pain, despite his sudden lightheadedness. He wished it away, not even allowing himself to consider giving up. He would never give up, not if it meant he would lose her. _

_ Allowing himself a single moment for breath, Draco prepared himself, taking in the silence of the scene. The Deaths Eaters shot curses at him, but none were strong enough to penetrate the shield he put around the two of them. He carefully retracted it, and as he did, he shot off spell after spell, knowing that they would soon crumble under his relentless attack. The first one fell quickly, not expecting him, but the other managed to block all of his shots, even shooting back a few of his own. Draco advanced on him, his face stone cold as he flicked his wand and sent the man to the ground in a heap.  _

_ Finally releasing the breath he had been holding, Draco allowed himself to check on Hermione, whose eyes were closed. Her breaths came in harsh wheezes, too shallow for his liking. She was so pale she was almost translucent. He returned his wand to his holster with a flick before taking his hand and brushing it ever so gently against her cheek, his touch a feather. She looked so fragile in that moment that it terrified him. He was running out of time. Without waiting another few minutes as he should have, Draco pulled his portkey necklace into his hand, glancing between him and Hermione before activating it. It was only a second or two later that he felt the familiar pull at his navel tugging him back to the house. He held Hermione close, clutching onto her for dear life as if she were his life force, and, in a way, she was.  _

It took countless agonizing hours to heal her injuries. He had stood there, helpless, as Lovegood healed her as swiftly as she could, trying to do everything she could to save her. He had only assisted her, handing her things that she said she needed, forcing a potion or five down Hermione’s throat. She wouldn’t allow him to do any of the real healing work. So, instead he paced about the room, unable to stand still as Luna worked. After he had forced himself to calm down a bit, he sat down in a chair next to their bed, unable to take his eyes away from her. He held her hand, though not too tightly, drawing light tattoos against her skin almost absentmindedly. His other hand weaved its way into her hair, which was still half-in a matted, muddy braid. He peeled the bloodsoaked locks away from her face, eventually taking a cool, wet rag to her forehead, which, as Luna worked, became feverish. He supposed it was an improvement, as she was no longer as cold as a corpse. He whispered to her, sweet promises he hoped to keep, soft words of comfort, though he knew she wasn’t able to hear him in her comatose state. He didn’t admit to himself that the words were more for his own benefit than for hers.

He also had the displeasure of discovering that Luna hummed to herself as she healed. He wasn’t sure how he never noticed, as she had healed him, healed all of them in the past. But it was an incessant tune that wouldn’t stop playing, even now, as he stood in the kitchen, the melancholy melody bounced around his skull, echoing in his ears. It was a lullaby of death, the tune reverberating into his bones. He knew that if he could ever find sleep, it would haunt him there too. That, and, of course, the sound of Hermione crying out in pain, the scream that emanated from her as she was struck down, the wheezes she continued to produce as she attempted to take a deep breath. 

He was so caught up in Hermione that he’d forgotten that his shoulder was injured altogether, feeling only a dull ache for hours as he watched. When she  _ had  _ tended to his shoulder, he refused to leave Hermione’s side, despite Lovegood’s insistence that he lie down as she reattached the tendons and damaged muscle tissue. He held Hermione’s hand as Lovegood worked on him, focusing solely on her, rather than the pain. Only after she finished working on both him and Hermione, did he let himself breathe, did he go to the bathroom and heave up the meagre contents of his stomach for the second time tonight. He dry-heaved until there was nothing left but bile, burning the back of his throat like acid. He then let himself cry, to sob and sob in a way he only did seven times in his life, all in his weakest moments. He sat on the floor, his head in his hands, wiping at his eyes, pulling at his hair for the longest time, knowing that if he tried to stand up, he’d only fall back down, as he wasn’t strong enough to hold himself up. He had almost lost her. His Hermione. The only person he had left in this world who truly cared about him. Only when he felt as if he could shed no more tears, did he stand up and wash his face of his breakdown, wash the blood–Hermione’s blood–from his body. 

He had almost lost her and it was his own fault. He had stood there, watching her fight, like the dumbstruck idiot he was, rather than sensing the Death Eater’s approach. He should not have been watching. He should have been aiding her. No, she never should have been at the house in the first place. It wasn’t her post; she was supposed to be on the battlefield and _he_ let her stay. She was _so_ damn stubborn. The damn Gryffindor in her, needing to save everyone, to throw herself into situations that would get her killed without a second thought. When he pleaded with her, she refused to leave him, to let him handle the ambush on his own, despite it being dangerous. He allowed her to stay. His constant desire to give her anything she wished for had blinded him from the reality of the situation. He conceded to her argument and allowed this to happen. It was _his_ decision that almost got her killed, that almost caused him to lose her, the only person in the world left for him. 

He hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than his mistake. Not even when Aberforth had screamed at him, reprimanding him for breaking protocol. He never broke protocol before so blatantly. He had just stood there, his eyes on the wall behind the older man, taking every word he had yelled at him. He knew that what he had done was wrong, both by letting her stay, and later not leaving her behind. He didn’t need Aberforth to tell him that nor reprimand him. He was thoroughly atoning for his sins; he didn’t need someone else to point them out. He had told Aberforth as much. The older man had given him a grave look that reminded him of his late brother, Albus, before doing something that his brother would never had done. He had pulled Draco to him in an embrace that said more than any amount of words could. He knew that Aberforth had recognized the ghosts in Draco’s eyes, his unspoken words, his reasons. When he had released him, Aberforth cleared his throat and ordered him to bed.

So Draco paced, and paced, and paced through the kitchen. Back and forth, back and forth. His jaw was set so tightly that his teeth felt as if they were going to crack if he clenched any harder. He ran his hands through his platinum hair, pulling on the ends in an attempt to feel something,  _ anything _ other than the rage that threatened to consume him. He couldn’t look at Hermione without feeling guilty for every pained breath she took, for every wince that shook her. That guilt turned into anger; angry at Hermione for staying, angry at himself for conceding to let her.

With another slam of his glass against the table, Draco argued, “I was fine! I had it covered! I didn’t need you there in the first place! You should have reported to the battlefield like you were  _ supposed  _ to!” He was increasing in volume as he spoke, not really caring who heard their argument. It definitely wouldn’t be the first time. They didn’t argue often, but when they did, their fights were explosive in nature, though he knew, this one was on the track to be the most violent they’d ever had. He hadn’t been this angry towards her since they were children, since he had been an arrogant little prick, hating her because she single-handedly proved everything he believed about muggles and muggles and muggleborns to be untrue. 

In the wake of his shouting, Hermione’s face physically recoiled, shuddering away from the rage that was not usually directed towards her. But in contrast, Hermione, being who she was, the voice of reason, kept her voice calm, even when she spoke, not allowing his irate behavior to phase her further than her facial expressions. “You were not fine, Draco Malfoy; don’t even try to say otherwise. There was absolutely no way in hell you would have been able to take all of those Death Eaters on by yourself. It was almost too much for the both of us combined and we’re both more than competent fighters.” She said, taking a brief sip of her drink as Draco filled his glass to the brim once more. “Besides,” She spoke knowingly, as if she was merely stating a reputable fact, which only put more of a sour taste in his mouth. “I could have just as easily been struck down on the battlefield.” 

“Even if I wasn't fine–I didn’t need your help!” He shouted, throwing back another glass of whiskey, sloshing it around his mouth in an attempt to banish the sour taste. “Please stop doing that guy thing where you pretend that you had it covered, even though you didn’t, just to save face.” Hermione said, rolling her eyes and waving a hand in the air dismissively. Draco clenched his teeth further, groaning in frustration as he placed his glass back down onto the table. “You were almost  _ killed, _ Hermione! You almost  _ died _ ! Can’t you see that?” He bellowed. He was now towering over her currently frail frame, his face almost nose to nose with hers. He could feel her small, harsh breaths against his cheek. With a light palm to his chest, Hermione lightly pushed Draco away from her. He backed away, leaning against the back of his chair. If he really wanted to, he could have resisted easily, as she was in no condition to be sitting up, let alone using any muscles, so there was no power behind her shove; an empty threat. “But I’m not dead, am I Draco? I’m here; I’m okay. I’m alive, so what does to matter? Stop dwelling on it.” She said, her voice soft, with a sting laced in. Comforting, but still dismissive, final.

But as much as she wanted to dismiss the subject, Draco found that he couldn’t banish it from his mind. He couldn’t suppress the ‘what ifs’ from surfacing, from attacking him, suffocating him until he could think of nothing else. His heart ached with them, burned, throbbed. What if she had died? What if he had left her there? What if he lost her and never got the chance to tell her everything, from the simplest statement, to his deepest secret? What if he never got to tell her what she meant to him, how he ached? What if she bled out in his arms, if it happened so quickly that he never got his chance to save her? What if she had left him all alone in this world, truly alone? 

Did she truly not see how much it affected him to have seen her almost die? Did she not understand at all why he was angry with her? Did she not see how much tonight had broken him, despite her having survived? Did she not know that he would have actually  _ lost his mind _ without her? His hands shook harder at the mere thought of losing her. They actually hadn’t stopped shaking since she was hit, and he wasn’t sure that the tremors would subside anytime soon. They were cruciatus tremors; they always resurfaced when he was at his most vulnerable, his most broken. And at this moment, he felt shattered, obliterated by the events of the night. Usually Hermione would hold him close, rub the muscles until they gave up on their spasming or give him a calming draught or even a muscle relaxer if the spasms became too much, but he wasn’t going to ask, not tonight. He didn’t need her to worry about him when she could barely walk.

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hand, still slightly from having washed it in the sink. “It was too dangerous for you to be there, Hermione, can’t you see that? You shouldn’t have been there! You should have been where you were ordered to be; it was safer there!” He grumbled, his mouth pressed into a firm line, his silver eyes molten with ire. She wasn’t hearing him, wasn’t understanding his desperation, his perspective. But he knew she had heard his last words, because as he spoke, rage flickered through her calm demeanor, behind her pain laced eyes, slicing through like a hot knife. Finally, her voice raised, beginning to match his in volume. “And who are you to decide what’s ‘too dangerous’ for me?” She accused, her cheeks, her neck, flushing deep red with fury. Her voice was low, threatening, a warning of sorts, perhaps, but he didn’t heed it, plowing through so as to get to his point. “I _had_ to make that decision for you because you and your stupid suicidal Gryffindor courage were too blind to see it! I wouldn’t have _had_ to make that decision if you had been using your goddamn brain!” He shouted, his eyebrows furrowed together. He was standing straight again, his injured arm crossed over his chest while his other held his glass and an accusing finger, pointed directly at her from across the room.

He watched from afar, his expression reflecting the piqued feeling that he fought to contain as Hermione finally yelled, “I was trying to help  _ you,  _ you stupid, arrogant prat!” She pounded her fist into the table with as much force as she could possibly muster, causing the glassware on it to shake and the spoon that was sitting there to fall to the ground with a clatter. “You don’t get to make that decision for me, Draco. My decision to stay and fight with you was mine, and mine alone. And it was a well-thought out one at that. Don’t think I didn’t know what I was doing. I made a mistake; I was careless and I’m paying the price for it. Now,  _ let it go _ .” She said, her voice sharp, laced with a venom that she so rarely used on him. It caused him to recoil a bit, but he didn’t back down.

“I’M NOT GOING TO LET IT GO, HERMIONE!” He shouted, his voice reaching new levels of loud, so loud, in fact, that Hermione flinched. It made his heart twinge at the sight. He  _ never _ screamed at her like that, never directed his anger towards her. She didn’t deserve it. His usually colourless face was tinted crimson with exasperation. She still,  _ still _ , even hours after, wasn’t seeing his perspective. Draco took a breath, releasing it slowly so as to try and calm himself down, but to no avail. “Besides, you didn’t even help. All you did was slow me down with your so-called ‘mistake’.” He said, his voice hushed, his pitch low and dangerous, filled with more anger than his shouting could muster. 

At this, Hermione glared at him, her usually warm brown eyes burning with rage like a crackling flame. Draco took a few steps forward so that he was standing just behind her chair. She clenched her fist tightly, so tightly it was shaking. She slowly tapped it against the wood, the sound delicate in comparison to their voices. When she spoke, it began quietly, just barely above a whisper, but as she continued, it rose, jumping decibels to a shout. “That was your choice, Draco Malfoy. Don’t you dare try to pin this on me.” She said, pointing a furious finger at his chest, bare inches away. “You should have left me, like  _ you  _ were supposed to!  _ You’re  _ the one who broke protocol, not me, so don’t even try to tell me that I ‘slowed you down’ by getting injured!  _ Your  _ orders were to leave me there!” She bellowed, the gold flecks in her eyes more prominent than he’d ever seen them, glowing like a raging flame, a conflagration. Her expression was fierce, her mouth a set line, her jaw clenched slightly. She was chewing on her chapped lip, gnawing on it incessantly. 

Draco took a step closer, his brows furrowed together, his fist shaking with tremors at the memory of her lying there, pale as a ghost, on the muddy ground outside of the house, soaked in her blood. Her bloodless lips whispered to him, mustered pleas for him to leave her there like some sort of sacrifice. His head pounded, raged with a migraine so intense that it was beginning to give him blurry vision at the edges. He exploded then, as he look at her, remembering what had happened, remembering the blood, the gaunt tone to her skin, the way the life seemed to be draining out of her with each second he wasted arguing with her. “IF I HAD LEFT YOU THERE, YOU WOULD HAVE DIED, HERMIONE!” He shouted, closing his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to take a breath as he held onto the back of his chair, gripping the frame with an intensity that turned his knuckles a ghostly white. He could feel the same desire he had felt the night his mother died begin to creep up on him, the desire to destroy everything in sight.

As Hermione began to speak, he poured more firewhiskey, choking it down. This time, Hermione’s voice was weary, tired, shouting less intensely than she had before. “This is war; we do what we have to do, even if it means leaving someone behind! It’s every man for himself out there.” She spoke gravely, her eyes deadened, the embers that had burned behind them dulled to a flicker. “People die everyday in war; this is no different! I knew what I signed up for when I volunteered to fight for this cause, in this war, Draco! I knew that death was more than likely, that it was almost guaranteed! I knew the risks; I full well knew that there was a sizable chance I wouldn’t make it, and you did too!” She said, her voice firm as she breathes through her pain. As her voice faded out, her wheezing returned, stronger than before as she fisted the hand that rested against her abdomen. She put her chin to her chest and closed her eyes, taking one, two shaky, but deep breaths before looking back up to him. Her golden brown eyes were laced with agony. “I knew what I was doing when I told you to leave me.” She said softly.

Draco forced a breath out of his nose in an attempt to contain his rage, but he found himself unable. He was, unfortunately, going to need that calming draught. As he stood there, the cruciatus tremors plagued his fingers horrifically, and the whiskey was doing nothing to soothe him. He was quiet for a few moments, studying her with intensity. When he finally spoke, minutes later, he was no longer screaming. No, he was  _ so _ tired. His voice was desperate, honest. “I couldn’t leave you there, Hermione. I couldn’t leave you to die. I wouldn’t–wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I had left you.” He paused, glancing down to the table, considering his next words before he spoke them. “What you were asking me to do was impossible. I  _ couldn’t _ do it.”

Hermione seemed to consider his statement, one of her eyebrows raising slightly. “What do you mean, ‘impossible’? You could have walked away, gone back to the other side of the house, checked the perimeter, like you  _ should have _ , but you  _ didn’t _ ! If you had left me, then your shoulder would never have been struck.” She said. “Impossible my arse, Draco.” She muttered. It was becoming harder and harder for Draco to breathe. His fingers twitched as he maneuvered them into the fabric of his shirt. His breaths came harshly, each one practically choking him. He looked down at the floor, studying the cracked and faded tile. Each one of Hermione’s words hit their mark, hit him right in his heart with a pang that reverberated throughout his whole body like a shudder. 

“I–” He tried, but couldn’t seem to find his voice. Draco closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. When he opened them, he lifted his chin to find her watching him, his every movement, every breath, seemingly anticipating his every move. She seemed furious, curious, exhausted, and in such great, great pain. He swallowed back the storm of emotions that was brewing beneath his skin, forcing it back as he tried again, “I couldn’t–” He spoke, his voice rough, thick with the same emotions he was fighting so hard against. “I couldn’t leave you there, Hermione. I  _ couldn’t _ .” He turned on his heel, and with his uninjured arm, poured himself another glass, drinking half of it before setting it down.

“Why not, Draco? Why couldn’t you? You were reprimanded for not leaving me, I know you were. You’re a rational, pragmatic person, Draco. I  _ know you _ . I know it wasn’t in your nature to go against the protocol. So why not?” Her question echoed in his ears, repeating over and over again, screaming to him, demanding an answer, one he was afraid to give. He found that he could only shake his head, only stating what he already had, his voice, his rational mind, not allowing anything more. “I just  _ couldn’t _ .” He mumbled, his voice barely louder than a whisper. 

Hermione sighed a wheezing sigh, her face contorting as she did. “Just give me a reason,” She said sharply, “Give me a reason and I’ll drop the subject.” Draco only shook his head, his mouth unable to form words, to say what he needed to, the answer she needed to hear, the one he had been holding back for months now, though he’d only realized recently that he was. “Why not? I just don’t understand. It’s not that hard. Just tell me why.” Hermione kept speaking and speaking, pushing him to give an answer, but Draco only continued to shake his head, the rushing in his ears getting louder and louder with each passing moment. It became harder and harder to ignore the irrational part of his brain, the instinctual part that had made the decision not to leave her in the first place.

He found the only words he could, growling them to her harshly, “ _ Stop Hermione!”  _ His voice sliced through the noise in his head, if only for a moment. For that moment, Hermione paused. She brought her golden eyes to his quicksilver ones, examining them as if she could see his naked soul through their lenses. “Why should I, Draco?” She asked. He had no answer, no rational response as to why he wanted her to stop, to why he wouldn’t answer her in the first place. Only this sick sense of self preservation. He needed to tell her, and yet–and yet he couldn’t. In fear of what she’d think, in fear that he’d lose her just as completely as if she had died tonight. He didn’t know what she’d do, what she’d think, if he told her, and honestly–it scared him more than anything else in this strange and fucked up world. 

When Hermione spoke again, her voice was loud, hollow, and utterly exhausted, but she yelled on relentlessly, determined to get an answer out of him. This was the same stubborn Hermione who had almost gotten herself killed tonight and didn’t see the fault in her decision. “WHY NOT, DRACO? JUST FUCKING TELL ME ALREADY!  _ PLEASE! _ ” Something seemed to snap inside of Draco at that moment, whether it was all of his control, or his rationality, or maybe just his sane mind, something snapped all the same. It was as if the pressure valve inside of his head had finally exploded, had finally grown tired of warring with itself and had given up entirely.

His breathing was laboured now, his expression contorted in an effort to prevent the avalanche of words that he knew was coming from spilling out of his mouth like vomit. He barely lasted five seconds before his efforts became fruitless, the pounding in his head, his heart, his ears, drowning out any logistical thought he had left. The words flowed out of him before he could censor them, before he could even think it through, shouting them at her, at the world, no longer holding anything back. “IT WAS BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, HERMIONE!” He said, taking a step back from her, throwing his arms up wide on either side, ignoring the searing pain that cut through the wound in his shoulder as he continued to speak, his voice still booming, “Don’t you get that? Is that what you wanted to hear? Because I do! I love you  _ so fucking much _ , so much, that it actually hurts, aches with every fibre of my being! I  _ couldn’t  _ leave you there! I couldn’t have, not even if I had wanted to, even if I thought it was the ‘right’ thing to do! I  _ couldn’t do it _ , you daft beautiful bint! It was physically impossible for me because I’m in love with you!” 

When he finally found a way to stop speaking, he heaved in his breaths, the air feeling like a cold rush against his lungs, but the damage had already been done. He could feel his face burning a bright scarlet, his head was spinning. He couldn’t believe the words that had come out of his mouth, that he had said them aloud, to  _ her _ ! He had said them loud enough for the whole damn house to hear, and anyone else within a one-mile radius. He almost didn’t care, didn’t care that he might have woken the whole house, most of which, probably weren’t even asleep to begin with, as they had only buried Lavender, or at least, what was left of her, a few hours ago. He only cared that she had heard. In that moment, no one else, nothing else, mattered. 

He looked down at his feet, not allowing himself to dare a glance at Hermione, who had gone as quiet as the dead. “I love you, Hermione. I love you so much that it actually scares me some days. I have never loved someone like this before, have never cared this deeply about another person. I couldn’t leave you there to die–I just  _ couldn’t _ .” His voice faded into the silence that hung over them like a boulder, threatening to drop and crush everything and everyone underneath it. 

The room was silent for what felt like an eternity, but was probably no more than thirty seconds. He needed her to speak, to say something,  _ anything _ to end this deafening silence. It was killing him. He could feel her eyes on him, watching, staring at him, despite her lack of a response. When he was sure she wasn’t going to speak, he knew that he was just going to have to look at her and try to gauge her reaction, as much as it terrified him. Draco swallowed thickly, forcing himself to look up at the woman sitting in front of him for the first time since his admission. It took more courage to lift his eyes to hers in that moment than it took to fight in most battles. 

Slowly, Draco raised his eyes looking everywhere and anywhere else in a desperate attempt to escape from this moment, from the pressure of her gaze, from the weight of his confession on his shoulders, from the fear that threatened to consume him. Before meeting her eyes, Draco scanned Hermione’s facial expression. Her mouth hung slightly agape, a thin wisp of breath escaping with a slight noise that cut through the silence slightly. She looked as if she were unable to move, unable to say a single word. Her arm was curled into her side tighter than it was before, pulling on the worn fabric of the shirt she was wearing–his shirt. She wore an expression that might have come across as if she had been slapped across the face, the shock written into her features. 

Furrowing his eyebrows, Draco finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, which were studying him with an indescribable glint in them. The gold flecks in her eyes glimmered strangely, in a way he’d never seen them look before. It was completely unreadable, something that was rare, as he was almost always able to gauge her emotions, but this time, he had not the slightest clue. And it petrified him. As he looked back at her, he was sure that his heart would give out, the pounding in his ears louder than any drumbeat. His breathing remained laboured as they watched each other intently, seemingly uncertain of who should make the next move. He still stood halfway across the room, his arms now carefully folded across his chest, putting a breathable distance between them, though it still felt as if she was too close for him to breathe. 

A few moments later, Hermione finally closed her mouth, a slow, small movement that would have gone unnoticed if he hadn’t been watching her so intently. She immediately set at chewing on it, as she always did when she was thinking, or was worried, her expression morphing as she did, the ire fading away from her face into something  _ else _ . He still couldn’t read it, but he watched her carefully, his silver eyes glowing with curiosity. Her eyebrows furrowed, but not in anger, almost in… endearment? He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to watch her further as her expression continued to shift as she shook her head lightly. Draco was sure that if she didn’t speak soon he might actually explode.

Her eyes finally ceased contact with his, looking down at her lap instead. He stared at her as her lips, those lips that he loved so much, as they slowly quirked up into the smallest, most beautiful of smiles. It was only a moment later, though it felt longer, that she looked up again, tucking a lock of curly hair behind her ear as she did. Almost immediately, a soft glimmer on her cheek caught his eyes, so small, that if he wasn’t paying attention, he wouldn’t have seen it. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but a moment later, his suspicions were confirmed as a tear rolled down Hermione’s pinkened cheeks. He wasn’t quite sure what to do, or even what to say, so he just stood there like an idiot. Hermione sniffled, wiping the tear away, her smile widening as she spoke for the first time since his confession, “Come here, you prat.” She mustered, the words uneven, though her intentions were made clear as she gestured for him to come closer.

Draco hesitated for a moment, not immediately understanding what she was trying to get at until he looked down at her abdomen and caught sight of the arm she had thrown around it protectively. Her wound. He had forgotten; forgotten that she was injured, that she couldn’t even walk. He had momentarily forgotten where they were, what they had been doing before, that Hermione had been hurt in a mission, that Lavender Brown had died tonight, that Hermione almost had, that there was a war outside these walls. He had forgotten everything but the two of them in this moment and that was a dangerous thing.

In three long strides, once again pushing away all thoughts of the war, Draco sat down in the chair next to her, in  _ his _ chair, so that he could be eye level with her. He was much closer to her now, as he could see the light brown freckles that littered her face like shavings of gold, but not close enough to feel her breath on his face. A comfortable distance, and yet, his heart was pounding in his chest cavity, feeling as if it could give out at any moment.

Now, well, now he could read her expression, read it as plain as the day. He could see her soul, just as he had bared his to her with his confession. Tears spilt down her cheeks, prompting Draco, without even realizing he was even doing it, to bring his thumbs up to either side of her face, gently wiping away the tears that dampened her cheeks. Hermione’s eyes flicked down to where his fingers still delicately rested for a moment, taking one, two long breaths before looking back up to meet his eyes. For the first time, he noticed that the hand that wasn’t wrapped around her abdomen, clutched at her necklace–his mother’s necklace, as if it were her lifeline. 

Not even a full breath later, before Draco even had time to register what she was doing, Hermione released her death grip on the necklace and instead reached across the space between them, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, tugging him, with all of the strength she had in her weakened state, close enough that their noses were bare inches from touching. Without hesitation, she brought her lips down hard on his, so passionately that he nearly fell off of his chair in surprise. The hand that was tangled in his shirt slowly made its way to the nape of his neck, leaving a trail with her fingers that seemed to burn his skin as she did. She kissed him hard, nipping on his bottom lip enthusiastically. He kissed her back just as fervently, meeting every nip, every bite, every touch of a tongue with one of his own, trying to convey to her how perfectly true the words that he had spoken, the words he had held back for too long, were. 

Hermione’s nails dug into his neck, scratching her desperation into his skin. She pulled his bottom lip into her mouth and sucked on it lightly before pulling on it with her teeth. The resulting groan that came out of him was guttural, feral, almost, as he reached his arm around her, weaving his fingers into her brown locks, pulling her closer, closer. She whimpered under his touch, inching her body closer, managing to wedge her knee in between his legs. His other arm wrapped around her body as carefully, so as not to injure her further. as he could, hooking onto her hip gently. All the while, she continued her assault on his lips, eliciting groans from both of them in her attempt to tell her in the only way they both knew how, how she felt. He could feel her response to his admission written into the passionate way her lips moved against his, the way that her fingers gripped him, the way that her tongue eagerly tangled with his, as if she could never get enough of him. 

The kiss was bruising, unlike any other kiss they had shared. It was filled with brutal honesty, a rawness that so rarely shown through in a world where you needed the thickest of skin in order to survive, where weakness could be the death of you. He could feel her vulnerability entangling with his as he kissed her, wrapping around them until there was nothing but. Her lips felt like fire on his, raging hot, almost molten, searing him, but all he wished to do was get  _ closer _ to her. He would burn for her, as he ached for her when they were apart. He loved her,  _ Merlin _ , he loved her. 

She was crying, he could tell, as tears ran down her face, the salt of them intermingling with the taste of her. Her tears were scorching against his skin, almost as hot as the kiss itself, only heightening the tension between them that sought to be sated. He kissed her hard, crushing his lips to hers in an inelegant clash of lips, teeth and tongue. He groaned against the feel of her, her lips, her tongue, her teeth, her skin, her fingers. Each gesture bringing him closer to breathlessness. This, he thought, this was bliss. He was sure of it.

_ I love you, I love you, I love you _ .

He tried to tell her in every way that he knew how, in every touch, every caress. She  _ needed _ to know just how much he meant it, how his blood sang at her touch, how his heart raced at the sound of her voice, how, when he entered a room, he could sense her presence, his eyes immediately falling to her like a magnet. He needed her to know that he could no longer fall asleep if she wasn’t there with him, that she kept the worst of his night terrors away. She needed to know just how much he needed her, how she was the only person in entire world that he had left that he loved, that he genuinely cared about. 

In a desperate attempt for oxygen, he begrudgingly ripped his lips from hers, placing one, two, three, more hot, bruising kisses against her lips. She chased each one as he retreated, seemingly desperate to resume their kiss, despite the heaving breaths that seemed to wrack her body with searing pain. Hermione’s eyes were hooded as he worked, fighting to stay open as he pulled away from her. Draco then pressed another to her neck, before forcing himself to stop, knowing that Hermione was in no fit state to go any further. She could barely handle this. So he took a cleansing breath against the skin of her neck in an attempt to calm his stirring cock, but in retrospect, did nothing but rouse him further. So instead, he pulled away completely, just relishing in the sight of her. Her eyes cracked open, a sated smile smeared across her face. 

The hand that was embedded into Draco’s nape trailed its way to his cheek, down to his chin, where her fingers traced the shape of his now swollen and bruised lips. He inhaled slowly through his lips, watching the way her fingers brushed against him. His eyes met Hermione’s then, he  _ needed  _ to see her, the silver of his eyes meeting the gold of hers, the ensuing eye contact making Draco feel as if she had read every aspect of him through it, and yet he allowed her to. Allowed her to view him unguarded, only as who he was, rather than who he often pretended to be. It was a scary thing, seeing the truth of a person, but yet he allowed her to continue to examine him. He watched her carefully, the expressions in her eyes for any signs of outright disgust or the tiniest twinge of disappointment, but he found none. She didn’t seem surprised, only intrigued, endeared. So he looked on at her, memorizing everything about her face, her eyes in this moment, from the drying tears on her face, to the faded pink color of her cheeks, to the way she bit her swollen lip, looking absolutely delectable so that it took all his restraint not to close the gap between them. 

It was only a moment later when Hermione broke their eye contact, pressing a kiss to his cheek before moving her head to the crook of his neck. Her left hand still remained on his lips, while the right, the one that had been curled over her midsection, was tangled in his hair, twirling it in a way that sent chills down his spine. Draco inhaled sharply at the feel of her placing kiss after chilling kiss down the curve of his jawline. He could feel his muscle jumping under her touch in an attempt to stay still as she continued. Her scent was invading him once more, intoxicating him beautifully, infusing him with such intense desire for her that he was sure he was shaking. His eyes fluttered shut, leaning into her ministrations, relishing in them. If she didn’t stop soon, he was sure he was going to have to go to the bathroom to go relieve himself of his little  _ issue _ like a fifteen year old.  

Hermione kissed every inch along his jawline, running her nose, which was considerably colder than her lips, along as well as it trailed, until she reached the crest of his ear. Her breath was warm against it, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she spoke, soft, melodic words, that almost seemed to counteract the weight of them, “I love you, Draco Malfoy. I love you despite and because of your flaws, because you’re not perfect, but that’s what makes you so. You’re my North Star in the darkness of this war, this world, Draco.” He wasn’t quite sure that he was breathing, or even that his heart was beating. Everything seemed to stop in that moment, from his heart in his chest, to the crickets outside, to the low rumble of whatever was on the telly out in the living room. 

The words sounded so beautiful, so foreign coming out of her mouth. At first, he wasn’t sure that he had heard her correctly, but once he assured himself that he indeed wasn’t hallucinating, it took everything he had in him not to pull her as close to him as he possibly could and take her right here. He knew that they couldn’t, and he cursed the fact that she was injured once more, for an equally selfish reason as he had all of the previous times, though probably the most sinful. 

He didn’t let her linger on the statement before he pulled her back a bit, turning his head to caress her bottom lip with his thumb, for fear that she would take it back. He gave himself a moment to back up a few inches and truly look at her, to memorize every facet of her appearance, to commit it to memory how she had looked in this moment, so that he would never,  _ ever _ forget. He allowed himself to take all of her in, every minute detail of her, from her bushy hair, to her flushed cheeks, still sparkling with the remnants of tears, to her swollen lips looking even more kissable than they had a few moments ago, to her exposed collarbone thanks to his oversized shirt, to the injuries that currently plagued her body, the way that her hand was wrapped around herself, to the gold of her eyes, shining brighter than he ever remembered it to, like flecks of starlight dancing about her irises. He needed to remember it all. 

Hermione leaned forward again, pressing a gentle brush of lips against his temple before resting her forehead against his. She allowed her eyes to close, the words falling from her parted lips quietly, hanging in the inches between them, “I love you so much, Draco, so much.” His breath caught in his throat as she said it, barely believing that he was hearing them. He would never tire, he knew, of hearing her utter them. “I mean it, Draco.” She whispered, trying to lean across the space between them into another kiss when Draco moved back from her. Instead, he brushed his nose the sensitive column of her throat before trailing his tongue across it in the way that he knew would make her squirm. She pulled on his hair, her fingers raking through the hair on the back of his head as she moaned, causing him to smirk into her skin. He sucked, nibbled and bit everywhere on her neck that he knew she liked before pulling away completely, leaving her breathless, the way she was able to do to him with just her words, a glance, or a chaste kiss. 

He then brought his face close to her, inches away, but still not touching and slid his hand from her hair down to the back of her neck, still nestled in her curls, yet resting against the warmth of her skin. He sucked in a breath, tucking an errant curl behind her ear before speaking, his voice low, “Please don’t ask me to do anything so impossible again; I won’t be able to. I couldn’t leave you there, Hermione. I can’t even stand the thought of losing you to this shitshow of a war. I can’t lose you, Hermione. I–” He broke off, swallowing hard, “I can’t stand to lose another person I love; I just can’t. First Theo, then my mother…” He drifted off, shaking his head. “I can’t lose you too. You’re the only person I have left, Hermione.” He whispered, unblinking, his voice strained. He could feel tears pricking behind his eyes as Hermione nodded compassionately, drawing indecipherable patterns against the back of his neck with her fingernails. She listened intently as he spoke, her eyes glittering with tears, with understanding. “You won’t lose me, my love. I have no intention of going anywhere. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” She whispered. For a moment, Draco couldn’t speak, remembering the way that Theo had spoken those same words to him on the night that he had died. He bit his lip at the memory, forcing down the tears that threatened to claw their way free. 

“I went against protocol, yes. I should have left you there, but I didn’t–I couldn’t. I almost lost you tonight, and if I had left you there, I would have, no question about it. I don’t care that I was reprimanded, what are they going to do, kick me out of the war? It was stupid and reckless that I did and I would do it all again to save you.” He said, his fingers trailing down her face, tracing the shape of her cheekbones, her jawline, her mouth, avoiding eye contact in a pathetic attempt to save face. “I don’t want to argue with you about this any longer. I hate arguing with you.” He said, clearing his throat before placing a chaste kiss at the corner of her mouth. 

He then leaned back in his chair, draining another glass of Firewhiskey. When he placed the glass back down on the table, Hermione spoke for the first time in minutes, her voice playful, a smile playing at her lips. “I don’t know about you, Malfoy, but I quite liked the outcome of this argument. Maybe we should do this more often.” The smirk that spread across her face caused him roll his eyes lazily at her. Hermione laughed then, a beautiful symphonic laugh that he wished he could hear on loop for the rest of his days. But, she winced a bit as she did, causing Draco’s smile to falter into a worried expression. “I’m fine.” She said hastily, intertwining their fingers, reassuring him as best as she could, her cheeks pink with exertion. She squeezed his hand, giving him a gentle smile. He nodded as she turned her head to look at the clock that hung on the wall beside them. As she did, a few stray curls fell forward to frame her face so perfectly that he didn’t even reach out a hand to brush them back. “I just think I’d like to go to bed now. It’s been quite a long day.” She gave him a hopeful smile to which he rolled his eyes again, knowing that he was the only way she’d get back to the bedroom, as he had carried her to the kitchen in the first place. 

He squeezed her hand back as he nodded, stating, “It’s time for more of your pain potion as well, love. Just give me one minute and then we’ll go.” Hermione gave him a brief nod back, curling her other arm tighter around her middle once more. Draco could feel Hermione’s eyes watching him as he poured the last of the firewhiskey from the bottle into his tumbler. He took a deep breath as he stared at the amber liquid within the glass, preparing himself before lifting it into the air toasting it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hermione hastily following him with her mug, picking up on the ritual she’d witnessed many times now. 

Draco hated this, hated that he had to do it, hated this war and what it was doing to them all, hated that people wouldn’t stop dying, wouldn’t stop killing each other. But, nonetheless, he had to do it, had to pay his respects to those that they lost in the only way he knew how without falling to pieces. Then, just as he was about to speak, he hesitated. Hesitated because he could have been toasting to the woman sitting beside him. He gripped her hand harder, pushing aside the thought, not even letting himself entertain it. 

He closed his eyes and took a long breath, swallowing hard before reopening them. His eyes glanced to Hermione, who was watching him in waiting, her eyes wide. He looked back to the glass in his hand, tipping it as he spoke, his voice thick, “Lavender Brown; may she find the peace we’re all seeking.” He then brought the glass up to his lips and swallowed the drink down hard in one gulp, burning as it went down, wiping the bead of whiskey that was dripping down his face with the back of his hand. He blinked back the tears that followed.

Hermione slurped down the rest of her sugar milk, making him chuckle the slightest bit before handing him the empty mug. He rolled his eyes, but didn’t complain, taking the mug out of her hand and walking it over to the sink along with his empty glass. He placed them in quietly, not that it made any difference, since he’d probably woke all of the people who might have been sleeping with his screaming, but he did nonetheless.

He walked back over to the table, stopping in front of Hermione’s chair. Draco then shot Hermione a weak smile, “Brace yourself Granger. This might hurt.” He said, bending down to pick her up as he’d done earlier. When they had gone to the kitchen earlier, she’d attempted to walk with him, but she’d fallen just trying to stand up on her own. The curse that had hit her had nearly torn her in half, so he carried her, much to her dismay. Granger was independent and stubborn; two of the many things he loved about her, but it made it hard for her to relinquish control, even to him. 

Hermione let out a shaky breath, wrapping her arms around his neck, lacing her fingers together, tangled in his blond locks before giving him a firm nod. She tensed in preparation of the pain that was sure to follow, her jaw clenched. Her eyes met his, complete trust laced within them. He swallowed, putting one arm behind her knees and the other behind her back carefully before easing her up into her arms. He felt her wince from the movement and bury into his chest to release a small sob. He nuzzled his head into her shoulder in attempt to comfort her, not that it did much. 

“As soon as I get you back in bed, I’ll give you more pain relief potion and a sleeping draught.” He said softly, kissing her temple. She attempted to nod, but barely managed to do so as he began to walk through the doorway into the hallway beyond. “You’re too good to me, Malfoy.” She breathed out into his chest, her breath warm. He couldn’t disagree more, knowing that she deserved much more, much better than anything he could give her, but he kept quiet, not wanting to argue with her further tonight, absorbing her warmth along with the scent that he loved more than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I really, really enjoyed writing this one!! I hope to have another one out within the next two weeks, hopefully I'll make good on that promise this time and not get distracted by life. Also, a certain character makes their first appearance in the next chapter ;)
> 
> Don't hesitate to let me know what you think of this chapter, as well as the rest of the story with comments and kudos, as I love hearing feedback from my readers!
> 
> Feel free to follow or contact me on my Tumblr, Dilemma-ed, to get updates on this story, as well as fanfic recs, and posts about HP/books in general!
> 
> Until then,  
> -Em:)


	13. Percy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-six days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco finds himself at a worn kitchen table of an Order safe house in Scotland, gripping a tumbler of firewhiskey in his white knuckles. It was a regular occurrence these days, an unfortunate one at that. He was there every time a resident was lost to the war, drinking himself into a stupor to try and forget, to rid himself of the pain that plagues his mind, his body.
> 
> That night was different though, as he found himself no longer alone in his wallowing. He wasn't sure how it happened, but something changed that night between him and Hermione Granger. Somehow, between the heavy stench of alcohol and the perfume of sugar milk, something was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a hot minute; I apologize. Once again, time got away from me, and it has been almost two whole months since I updated. I won't say I haven't been busy, because I have, but it's still no excuse. 
> 
> A gigantic thank you to my beta, closer-to-monkey, who's been a tremendous help to me as I struggled my way through this chapter!
> 
> Anyway, here's the next chapter, which I hope you enjoy, as I've had it planned in my head for a while now and have finally gotten it down on paper. 
> 
> -Em

Seventy-four days after Draco and Hermione confessed their love for one another that night in the kitchen, after Lavender Brown was brutally murdered and Hermione almost was, the pair found themselves once again within the confines of the kitchen. It was late, the middle of the night, and they had been in their bed, curled around each other, a bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, half-drank, the glass in Draco’s hand, when they had heard the floo roar to life. Most of the house had been sleeping, despite the news of the night, and most of them remained that way, or at least appeared to, as they hadn’t stirred from their quarters. So now, here they sat, awake, despite how exhausted they might be.

As if it were any surprise, Draco sat at the now-rickety kitchen table with a bottle of firewhiskey within an arm’s length, a half-filled glass within his bone-white grasp, the same one that had been sitting on the nightstand only fifteen minutes before. Hermione sat next to him, in the chair that had become hers, her fingers entwined with his gently, assuringly, in contrast to the rough, almost violent grip he had on his glass. Her other hand, however, was curled around her sweet-smelling mug, the comforting aroma like a sedative to him, calming the storm brewing behind his eyes temporarily. Draco was positive that if her hand wasn’t keeping him tethered, keeping him grounded, than he would have exploded into a fit of rage. She was keeping him calm, well, calm enough, for now, but he was sure that if their guest, the man sitting across from him, opened his mouth and said one wrong word, then he would hex him into oblivion. But for now, he settled for staring daggers into the man, hoping one of them would land true.

Tonight, the house found themselves mourning yet another death in the seemingly endless stream. This one was two-fold, one personal, the other critical. Percy Weasley had died tonight, fighting side-by-side with the longtime leader of the Order, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Percy had been living in the house for some time, his stuffy presence almost tangible, something he never thought he would be able to say he missed. While Percy hadn’t been as particularly notable within the ranks in comparison with his other siblings, Kingsley’s death was a massive blow to the Order’s cause. It pained Draco to say that it scared him. He wasn’t sure what they would do now, in regards to finding a leader. He hoped, prayed, that other wizarding governments, or the ICW, would finally stop bickering and intervene in this war and give the Order a fighting chance; if Voldemort gained any more influence, there was no doubt that he was aiming to take over more countries, create a whole new regime that expanded beyond the United Kingdom.

The two had been killed while fighting against Draco’s own father, Lucius, who seemed to become more and more cruel as the war continued, as well as his late uncle’s brother, Rabastan Lestrange. He didn’t read the full debriefing, having been too furious about the loss of their leader to want to know the complete circumstances. He wished he could say that it surprised him that his father would do such a thing, but it barely made him flinch anymore. He hadn’t seen Lucius in over a year, since the night he found his mother’s body in Malfoy Manor, and he only wished to see him one more time: when Draco finally got the chance to kill the bastard once and for all.

Draco didn’t feel a particular liking towards either of them, finding them both right prats whom had sticks so far up their arses, they were coming out of their mouths, but he grieved them nonetheless. They were still dead. Despite his dislike towards Kingsley, everyone in the rebellion felt the loss, whether they liked him or not. He was their leader, and had been for a long while now, and they all respected him regardless, knowing that he was trying to end this war, just like all of them. Now, the Order was scrambling to find a new leader, which, if he had to guess, was what had landed Draco into his current predicament.

He scowled as he looked on at the man sitting in front of him, bringing the glass to his lips, draining it down in one gulp without breaking eye contact. Once empty, he slammed it down on the table so hard that it shook a bit, causing Hermione to flinch slightly before she began stroking the top of his hand soothingly in small circles, as if silently telling him to calm down. Hermione had barely looked up since they had sat down, having been staring intently down at her lap, at the table, seemingly trying to think of something, anything she could say. They’d been sitting in tense silence for almost fifteen minutes, but Draco refused to be the one to break it, though he yearned to reach across the table and strangle the man sitting across from him for all the pain he had caused Hermione. This was her fight, first and foremost, and he wasn’t going to speak for her. When she was ready, she would break the silence, well, of course, if the third party at the table didn’t do it first. Draco could feel the rage, the turmoil radiating off of her in waves as she sat, her brows furrowed, her hair fallen in front of her face like a curtain.

Across the table from Hermione and Draco, sat a sullen and disheveled Harry Potter, who was currently hiding his face behind a glass of firewhiskey, identical to Draco’s, his hand shaking as it tilted the liquid into his mouth. He brushed his mop of hair away from his face, only to have it fall back, exactly as it had been before. He was nervous, it seemed. Draco wasn’t quite sure whether it was Hermione’s unreadable silence, or Draco’s own death glare that made him so, but he fidgeted as he sat, doing all he could to pretend he didn’t notice the blond’s piercing stare. 

No one had seen Harry in years; he’d been off doing Merlin knows what, whilst everyone else was fighting for their lives, trying to live to see the sun rise just one more time. They all had scars now, they were all bone-weary and broken by this war, all bearing physical tolls that this war had taken on them. But, Harry, however, didn’t have a single scratch on him, not a single scar with the exception of the one etched into his forehead. Besides looking haggard, and like he’d never owned a hairbrush in his life, not that that was out of the ordinary, he was completely untouched, looking unscathed from the horrors of the war. He was only a little bit thinner, from the rations, Draco supposed, and underneath his eyes he bore dark circles, though not quite as dark as many of the other soldiers. It made Draco’s blood boil, seeing that the supposed ‘Chosen One’ wasn’t doing anything to put an end to all this death and destruction. It seemed as if he had just hidden away in an alcove while the rest of them fought for their lives in a war that only he could end. It made him sick, put a sour taste in his mouth. Coward.  _ Gryffindor courage, my arse,  _ Draco thought, sneering at Potter as he did. 

From the moment Potter walked through the front door, Draco dared him to say something about his and Hermione’s relationship, as they did nothing to conceal it, much to Draco’s pleasure, but besides a sideways glance and a shake of his head, he had done nothing, said nothing about them. But just because he hadn’t said anything, didn’t mean he wasn’t silently judging them, in his own self-righteous way. Currently, he was watching Potter as he stared rather intently at Draco and Hermione’s entwined hands, which rested upon the table between them, focusing in on them, looking as if he was trying to understand what he had missed. Draco drew indecipherable patterns onto Hermione’s skin with his thumb, making Potter look as if he were a moment away from pushing his tiny brain cells into having an aneurysm. 

Draco was angry, enraged at the bespectacled man sitting in front of him, but continued to say nothing. It was a few moments later when the silence was finally broken by Hermione, who had finally looked up, pushed her hair out of her face just enough that he could see her profile, the light playing off of her eyes, the slight curve of her nose as if it were carved from the finest marble, the shape of her plump lips, on which a small indent remained on the bottom one from where she had been chewing on it. “Are you just going to sit there and stare at us or are you going to start talking, start telling us where the fuck you’ve been for the past seven years?” Hermione said, the sharpness in her voice barely contained. Her eyes were narrowed, her fist clenched against her mug tightly. Draco squeezed her hand, trying to convey to her that he’s here, that he’ll help her in any way that she needs. 

Draco had never seen Hermione so angry at the wizard sitting in front of them. Though they would occasionally argue at Hogwarts, those arguments were easily resolved. The rage burning in Hermione’s eyes was seven years worth of anger, frustration at Harry, at this war. And Draco didn’t blame her for it. He had seen this war first hand, the destruction it caused, the lives it destroyed, seen what it had done to him, to Hermione, and seen what pain Harry himself had caused her in his neglect. Draco had held her as she was plagued with nightmares of him, of the war. He had held her hand, hugged her to him as she sobbed against his chest, mourning those she loved. He’d allowed her to cry, to weep about the horrors that Harry must have been facing in order for him not to send her a single letter, not one means of correspondence over the past seven years. She had worried for him, fallen apart over him, over what he must have been going through, but now, here he was, sitting in front of them, for all intents and purposes, untouched. She deserved answers more than anyone, and if he wasn’t going to volunteer them, Draco would make him give them to her, one way or another.

The man in question peered over the table at them, his eyes shifting between the couple before speaking for the first time since he had first seen them in the living room a half an hour ago. He had only uttered a simple, “Hi,” as if that single word and a crooked smile could make up for seven years worth of suffering. “I know I’ve missed a lot…” He paused, his spectacled gaze moving to settle on the set of entwined hands once again. “Clearly...” He breathed. His voice was gruff, low, darker than Draco had ever heard it. Draco’s jaw clenched, tightening his grip on Hermione just a little bit, enough to be noticeable.

Potter shook his head before turning to look solely at Hermione, almost as if he were trying to pretend that Draco wasn’t there at all. “But, I’m sorry; I truly am, Hermione. For everything. I truly didn't mean to cause you any pain. You’re my best friend.” He swallowed hard, reaching across the table to place his hand on top of Hermione’s free one, but before he managed to touch her, she pulled away, as if his touch were poisonous, resting her hand across her abdomen, tangling her fingers in the fabric of her shirt. She shuddered a breath, looking away from the man she called her closest friend, as if she couldn’t bear to see him, as if it pained her. 

Yet, moments later, she looked back up with him, her eyes impossibly sad, so sad that it made Draco ache to comfort her, to take away any pain she was feeling. “Harry, I…” She attempted, her voice soft, broken, trailing off as if she couldn’t muster anything more. It was a voice that made him want to take her into his arms and hold her close to him, to brush her hair from her face, to dry her tears. She looked from Harry to Draco, her golden eyes pleading with his silver ones for help, for a way to escape the overwhelming suffocation that she must have been feeling at that moment. Choking down the rest of his glass of whiskey, he placed the glass down on the table, giving Harry another warning glare before resting the hand that wasn’t holding hers against his knee beneath the table. Hermione released a sad sigh, her tongue dashing out of her mouth for a moment to wet her lips before trying again.

“Seven years, Harry.” She paused, lifting her eyes to the emerald green ones that sat before them. “It’s been seven years since I have so much as received a single scrap of news about you, since I last saw you, or heard your voice. Not a single person told me anything about you, nor did you tell me. When I asked about you, all I was ever told was different variations of the same answer: that your whereabouts were classified, that it was beyond dangerous to contact you, that, by sending you a single correspondence, I could jeopardize your mission, and by extension, the entire rebellion. You don’t know how that feels, Harry, how much that hurt. You were supposed to be my best friend, Harry, but you weren’t here. I’ve been through hell and back in the past seven years; you haven’t a clue what I’ve seen, what I’ve done.” The edge in her voice grew with each word, as if she were close to losing her composure. 

As she spoke, Potter looked at Hermione, his green eyes laced with a growing amount of guilt. Draco tried to read him, his expression, his emotions, his next words, maintaining his death-grip on Hermione’s hand with ferocity, if anything, tightening it, rather than loosening. When Hermione was done speaking, she rested a beat in the silence before turning to Draco lifting her hand to caress his cheek lightly, saying, her voice free of the sharpness that had just riddled it, “Draco, love, please try to calm down; you’re crushing my hand.” He nodded, shooting her an apologetic look, loosening his grip almost immediately. “Sorry.” He muttered, giving her a small, sheepish smile, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. Hermione then tried to force a smile, but it came out pained.

She turned her attention back to Potter, who looked thoroughly uncomfortable at the display, which satisfied Draco to no end. He cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence, “I know, Hermione. Trust me, I know, and I’m so sorry. I missed you so much. I wanted to contact you, to tell you everything–” Before Potter could even finish his sentence, Hermione cut him off, the softer expression that had slipped onto her face while addressing Draco vanishing in an instant, shifting into a much harsher look. Her eyebrows were furrowed into a hard line, her mouth set. “No, Harry, you don’t know. You haven’t the slightest clue what I’ve–what we’ve all gone through. You weren’t here.” With a sharp intake, she stood up. Placing her free hand on the table, Hermione leaned forward, towering over Potter. 

When she spoke, her voice was graver than Draco had ever heard it, “I watched people die, _so_ many people, right before my very eyes. People I’ve known since I was eleven years old, all gone. People, who were my roommates, my housemates, my classmates, all dead, murdered in cold blood. Twenty-nine people, _twenty-nine,_ who have resided in this single, _sodding_ house from the time that I moved in, are now dead. _Good_ people, innocent lives, Harry!” She took a breath, looking down to the worn wood of the table, as if in an attempt to calm herself down. “Draco and I are the only ones left who have lived here longer than five years. Yes, some of them left, but most of them _died_. And the ones that did leave, they left to replace other innocent lives that had been lost.  
“Kingsley, Percy, Justin, Lavender, Hannah, Penelope, Dean, Theo, Arthur, Flitwick, Anthony, Marcus, Katie, Alicia, Pavarti, Astoria, Justin, Narcissa, Ernie, Oliver, _Ron–”_ Hermione’s voice broke off into a sob, her arm giving out against the table, her body collapsing. Before she could sink to the floor, Draco wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his body, attempting to steady her. He flinched at the mention of his mother and Theo, his eyes pricking with the precursor to tears, but he forced them back. He wouldn’t fall apart, not in front of Wonder Boy, not when Hermione needed him. As he held her, her shoulders shook as she sobbed. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, nuzzling, coating his skin with the heat of her tears. He murmured to her, soft, sweet words, reassurances, rubbing her shaking shoulders. She remained that way, ensconced in his arms, for a few moments, until her sobs subsided enough for her to be able to string a sentence together. 

Hermione peeled herself away, giving Draco a weak smile, intertwining their hands together once more, as if she needed to draw strength from him, lest she fall apart. Potter’s eyes were furrowed, his eyes cast down to the table, looking anywhere but at the couple sitting in front of him. He looked as if he had eaten something sour, but Draco couldn’t care any less, not when Hermione was this distressed. As she slumped back into her chair, she wiped the wet trails off of her face with her free hand before letting it fall to the table. Lifting her eyes to Potter, Hermione continued, her voice shaking slightly, “All dead. Every single one of them and thousands, millions more innocent lives, all gone, wasted to this war.” She paused, licking her lips, “For a while, Harry, I thought you might have been dead too.” As she spoke, her eyes were glassy with the unshed tears for the victims of this war, for the friends she lost. Draco’s heart wrenched for them, but more than anyone, for Hermione, for the suffering she has gone through over the past seven years. “And I’ve killed people, Harry,  _ so many people. _ I lost count a long time ago. Yeah, sure, they were ‘bad’ people, they were Death Eaters, but some of them were  _ children _ , teenagers, no older than fifth years. I can’t justify that, even if it was in self-defense.” 

The expression in Hermione’s golden eyes made Draco’s heart fracture, just a bit. This war was tearing her apart, piece by piece. He wanted more than anything to protect her from it all, to bring the war to an end, if only to end her suffering, but he knew it was impossible. Draco squeezed her hand in a comforting manner, opening his mouth to speak, but before he managed to, Potter’s voice broke the silence. “I didn’t mean for–” Before he was able to complete his sentence, Hermione cut him off once more, “But you did, Harry.” She said, her voice monotone. 

That seemed to put the Chosen One at a loss for words, nodding as he ran his hand through his eternally rumpled nest of hair. “Shit,” He cursed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. The tips of his ears were red and it seemed as if the confidence he had earlier was slowly draining out of him. “Look, Hermione, I really am sorry.” His emerald eyes appeared genuine, apologetic, and it almost made Draco feel sick, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. “Sorry that–that I didn’t–couldn’t tell you anything.” He sighed a deep sigh, suddenly seeming exhausted. He raked a hand through his hair once more, pulling on it.

“I wanted to,  _ believe _ me. More than anything. You’re my best friend, Hermione. I love you so much. It wasn’t easy for me to be apart from you for all these years, unable to send so much as a letter. I’m sorry, so, so sorry.” Swallowing hard, Potter continued before Hermione could cut him off again, plowing on. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t here when Ron died, that I wasn’t here when you needed me. I’m supposed to be your closest friend and I was an arse. I swear, I was just following Kingsley’s orders by keeping you, and of course, everyone else, in the dark in regards to my whereabouts. Now, Kingsley’s dead, just like Ron, just like so, so,  _ so _ many others. And, I know it probably doesn’t count for much, if anything at all, but I’m here now.”

Hermione sat there, staring at the man that had been her best friend, studying him with those golden eyes he loved so much. She seemed to be in turmoil with herself, arguing over her years-old rage and her desire to forgive her friend. Before she could reach a decision, Golden Boy spoke again, his eyes flicking to Draco, a spark of ire lighting up his emerald eyes. “And, I’m also sorry,” As he spoke, his voice was tight, but still quiet, calm. “That if my not being here, somehow, forced you into  _ Malfoy’s  _ arms. I feel like that one’s on me, Hermione.” He said, shaking his head, his voice teetering on the edge of sounding bitter. “I know you. The Hermione I knew never would have even considered this, would never have so much as looked in  _ his  _ direction. I know that something terrible must have happened over the past seven years for you to even consider doing something so rash. I just… I just don’t understand how  _ this,”  _ He gestured between Draco and Hermione, “happened. I mean, Hermione, what about Ron?” Draco’s jaw was set so tight, that it was a miracle that he hadn’t cracked his teeth. It took all of his strength not to stand up, not to walk over there and hex Potter until he no longer knew his name. 

The Chosen One continued speaking, but Draco didn’t hear a single thing he said after that, and, judging by her reaction, neither did Hermione. Draco saw red, his grip on Hermione tightening to the point where he was probably crushing her bones, but Hermione saw redder, crimson, maroon, blinding her. She shot up out of her chair, the piece of furniture scraping loudly against the worn tile floor. She tried to let go of Draco’s hand, but he held on tight, not letting her get any closer to Potter in fear that she would punch him, not that it wouldn’t be entertaining, or that he didn’t deserve it. He just knew that she would end up regretting it later, and, that if Aberforth found out, Hermione would be disciplined for harming the only person who could, supposedly, save them all. 

“What about Ron?” She said, her voice low, “What  _ about  _ Ron?” She bit out, the venom to her voice so present it felt as if it burned him. Despite it being past two o’clock in the morning, Hermione’s voice evolved into a shout. The expression in her eyes were like daggers, sharp, lethal. Potter flinched, hastily drinking back another sip of whiskey, his face contorting at the taste. “Ron’s  _ dead _ , Harry, don’t you understand! He’s  _ gone _ ! He’s dead and he’s been so for months, Harry, sodding  _ months!  _ Get it through your thick skull! He’s gone and he’s  _ not  _ coming back.” Hermione shouted, shouted in a way he had never heard her use on Potter before. The man sitting before him looked scared shitless, and rightfully so. There were few things in the world as terrifying as a wrathful Hermione.

“You know, I  _ watched  _ him die, Harry;  _ Draco  _ watched him die! You have no  _ idea  _ what that was like. Ginny, poor Ginny. She witnessed it too, witnessed her own goddamn brother murdered right in front of her eyes. She was so shell-shocked that she couldn’t even move. I was fucking  _ sobbing, sobbing  _ over his body, unable to believe what I had just witnessed. Draco had to  _ pry  _ me off of his body, had to force me to leave him there, otherwise I would have been dead as well, because  _ you  _ weren’t there to do it.

“If you  _ had _ been there, all those years ago, then you would have known that seven  _ sodding  _ years ago, Ron and I ended it because after trying for  _ so damn long _ , we realized that it didn’t–and was never–going to work. You weren’t there when we realized that maybe, in a different world, where there wasn’t a war, a world where we were normal teenagers, that we might have worked, but in this one, we never stood a goddamn chance. You weren’t there for all of the arguments–the endless, endless arguments, when we would scream ourselves hoarse either until there was nothing left to scream about, or we found that we could no longer scream. You weren’t there for all of the nights that I spent away from him, feeling guilty for those very same arguments, for the fact that, though I cared about him, though I loved him, I didn’t love him as I should, knowing truly, in my heart, that we were never going to work.

“You weren’t there when I found out that he had been cheating on me, for  _ sodding months _ , with an auror whom he had been living in the same house with, when I walked in on them,  _ fucking,  _ in his bed! He broke my heart, my trust.” Hermione’s cheeks were tinted red with fury, her eyes laced with a fire that burned deeply. Draco had heard this story; it was one that she didn’t often talk about. When she had told him for the first time, she had cried as he held her to him. It had been the first time she had told anyone, besides Weaselette.

“And Harry, you weren’t there, when I told him that I was done, that I couldn’t do it anymore, when I told him that it just wasn’t worth it anymore. When I told him that I was done–done fighting so damn  _ hard _ , so desperately for a relationship that wasn’t making me happy anymore!” Hermione heaved a shuddering breath, blinking back the tears that seemed to be clouding her vision. The hand that wasn’t trapped in Draco’s was fisted, the knuckles ghost-white against the table, practically shaking as she stood there. Even though it had been long ago, Draco’s heart still ached for her, for the girl Hermione as then, for the woman she was now, the woman he loved. Draco tried to tug her back down with a light pull, but she refused to back down, not even turning her head to acknowledge him. 

Potter sat there, his eyes filled with shame, his face dusted pink with embarrassment. Ever the dumbass, he opened his mouth, as if to speak, but then shut it again as Hermione began speaking again, her voice fierce, “You have absolutely  _ no _ room to speak about my relationship when you don’t know the first thing about it, Harry Potter. I shouldn’t even  _ have  _ to defend myself to you! My supposed ‘ _ best friend’ _ who hasn’t sent me so much as a single owl in the span of seven goddamn years! You don’t get a sodding say in who I go out with.”

Potter was silent for a moment, exhaling slowly. “But it’s  _ Malfoy _ .” He said, “He was cruel, to me, to you, to all of us. He  _ hated  _ you–you hated him! He–he called you a  _ m _ –” He cut himself off this time, shaking his head, “I just… I don’t understand you, Hermione. It’s  _ Malfoy…”  _ Potter said, rubbing at his temples. All of this information was probably too much for Wonder Boy’s pea-sized brain to handle. 

“You’ve been gone for a long time, Harry. I’m a different person than I was the last time that you saw me. The war has changed me, changed all of us, including Draco.” Hermione said, her voice quieter now, an adoring expression in her eye as she gazed into Draco’s quicksilver eyes. Potter cringed at Hermione’s use of his first name, as if the use of it, was a term of endearment in itself, which, he supposed, in a way, it was. The way she spoke his name was like the clearest melody he had ever heard. Her thumb stroked at the mark on his left forearm idly, lovingly, forever scarred, forever a reminder of his greatest mistake. It was something that never failed to put him at ease, even just the slightest bit. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on which one of them you asked, that little gesture of Hermione’s didn’t escape Potter’s notice. His eyes danced there, landing between their two scars, the brand on Draco’s, and the slur etched on Hermione’s. “But, Hermione, he  _ stood there _ –” 

Once again, Hermione didn’t allow her friend to so much as finish his sentence. “He didn’t have a choice, Harry. If he hadn’t done what he did–he would have been killed, or worse. He protected us that night, bought us a little more time so that Dobby could get to us, otherwise, we would have lost this war a long time ago, and Merlin knows what would have happened to us then.” Potter’s expression was one of disbelief, of skepticism, as if, even after everything, after  _ looking into his head _ when he first defected from Voldemort’s ranks, he still didn’t truly believe that Draco’s intentions were pure, both within the war, and with Hermione. Draco’s hand gripped his glass harder, leveling a glare at the man, willing him to say something. 

“Look, Harry. I don’t expect you to understand my decision, my heart, but Draco makes me happy, Harry, happier than I ever thought I could be, especially in this mess of a world. He’s my guiding light, honestly, probably the only reason why I haven’t gone insane yet. I lost everything, Harry,  _ everything _ . He’s the only person I have left. I love him, so fucking much, and he loves me, loves me properly, the way that Ron never did. You would know, maybe even understand, if you had been here all of this time. He’s the only sodding good thing that’s come out of this war, and I don’t have any intentions of him going anywhere in the near distant future.” Draco watched as Hermione held the serpentine pendant around her neck, running her finger along the curve of the snake’s body. 

The movement seemed almost idle, as if she wasn’t even noticing that she was doing it. His heart fluttered as she said those words, those words that he never got sick of hearing, no matter how often she spoke them. She had spoken them in front of other people before, never caring, or noticing who was watching, but, of course, this was the first time she had spoken them in front of someone who meant so much to her. It made Draco’s breath catch in his throat before reaching for his glass, draining it quickly.

“I’m not going to sit here, and justify falling in love with him, Harry. It happened and it’s not something that’s going away, so, if you’re going to stay around, you might as well get used to it.” Hermione dropped back down into her chair, glaring at Potter as she did. As Draco watched her, he couldn’t help the sense of pride that bubbled up inside him at the sight of her defending him. Because, he knew, that if it came down to it, Hermione would defend him until her last breath. Draco found that his heart was pounding at the sight of her, sitting there next to him, the rage burning off of her in waves, her eyes alight with passion, her hair framing her face like a golden brown halo. He loved her, loved her more than he ever thought possible and it took all he had not to pull her face to his and snog her senseless. 

Instead, he settled for a squeeze of her hand, trying to convey the words silently and subtly. Hermione looked over to him, maybe to see how he was faring during this conversation, her brown eyes softening instantly. Reaching across the distance between them with her free hand, she brushed the platinum fringe away from his eyes gently. If he was being honest, he hadn’t really even noticed that it was there, as he’d been too focused on her. Hermione’s hand traced downward, the warm tips of her fingers burning his skin in the best way possible. He kept his eyes on her, as her gaze followed her hand, tracing his jaw, his cheekbone, coming to rest against the cool skin there. Her eyes finally slid to meet his, and he could swear that the noise of the night, the cacophony of thought that riddled him day by day, even Wonder Boy sitting across the table, all fell away and there was nothing but two pairs of eyes, one silver, one gold. 

He never got sick of looking into those eyes, those mesmerizing, ethereal eyes. If he was being honest, he thought they were the most interesting pair of eyes he’d ever seen, though he may be a bit biased. They glowed, light radiating off of them like a candle flickering, wavering in the wind, like a flame against the darkness of night. He knew every facet of those eyes better than his own, every individual strand of color. He loved the fierce way they burned at the most intense times, the way they raged like a wildfire. He loved the way they melted, softened, if only the slightest bit, when she gazed over at him. His eyes didn’t waver from hers as she brushed her thumb against the shell of his bottom lip–

Draco was awoken from his trance by the sound of an awkward cough. He quickly glanced away from Hermione’s vibrant eyes, glaring over at Potter, who looked certifiably tense, with all of the irritation he could muster. “You coughed?” Draco said, his eyebrows raised. Potter blinked exactly three times, looking every bit of stupid that he did the last time that Draco saw him. “I believe we were having a conversation.” He said finally gaining enough brain function to form words. “And  _ I _ believe that I don’t care.” Draco quipped.

Potter made to stand up, his hands clenched into fists, but Hermione grabbed his forearm, “Harry, please, just sit.” She said, her voice lighter than it had been before. “Shut him up and I’ll sit.” Potter’s voice was laced with ire, his ears red with frustration. Hermione sighed, turning to Draco, apology written in her eyes. “Please, love.” She said. Draco sighed, rolling his eyes, but conceded to her, only for her. 

If only Potter didn’t mean so much to her. Then he was sure that by now he would have throttled him. He was the only one who allegedly had the power to end the war, to finally put a stop to all of this death and suffering, but yet, here he was, not a scratch on him, no visible side effects of the war plaguing him. No scars save the one on his forehead, no cruciatus tremors wracking his fingers. He would hex him for what this war had done to him, to Hermione, to Theo, to his mother, to those people whom he had loved and lost.

But he refrained, Hermione’s touch on his forearm, though light as a feather, felt like a heavy weight against him. He couldn’t do that to her, not when she waited so long for this moment, this reunion, this explanation. Behind the anger, he could see hope, desperation in her eyes to be once again close to her best friend. Because, despite everything, she still missed him, she still loved him. He was her friend, the only one she had left, really, besides Draco. Of course, there were the other residents, such as Lovegood, whom Hermione could always spend time with, but Weasley had died, her parents, best case scenario, were in Australia without a single memory of her, and Weaselette and Longbottom were too far away to do anything other than exchange letters.

He knew it was hard on her. She wasn’t like him, she wasn’t used to spending so much time alone, or with one or two people. Unlike him, who had only ever really had Theo and his Mother, Hermione had always had a support network of people who loved her, who cared about her. He tried doing the best he could, but he knew he couldn’t replace Potter or Weasley, and he wouldn’t try to.

So, Draco sat, resigned, but with a thoroughly irate expression on his face, watching intently as Potter lowered himself back into his chair, his bespeckled eyes fixed on Draco in warning. “Harry?” Hermione said, once again gaining the brunette’s attention. “I assume you didn’t come all this way after so long just to insult my relationship with Draco. So, why  _ are _ you here? Why show up after so long if all you’re going to do is argue with me?” Hermione questioned, her eyes alight with some semblance of curiosity that was familiar. 

Potter sighed, taking his glasses off, wiping them off on the material of his sweater, though, Draco wasn’t sure it was doing much for the smudges, but he supposed, that wasn’t really the point, as it seemed to be just a way to stall. “Um, well, I’m not–” He sighed, again, pushing his glasses onto his nose, “I’mnotreallyheretoseeyou.” He said so quickly, Draco almost didn’t catch it. A part of him hoped Hermione didn’t. She furrowed her brows, stating, “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t quite catch that.” There was something in her tone that suggested that she did indeed hear him, but she wanted to hear him say it again, that she wanted to be absolutely sure of what he was saying. 

Potter swallowed hard, licking his lips before speaking, and when he did, he spoke slowly, his voice cowardously low, “I’m not really here to see you, Hermione.” Hermione took a sharp intake of breath, her hand tightening slightly on Draco’s arm in an act of self-restraint, but she failed in her attempt to hide her flinch as Potter’s words hit her in a resounding slap. “Oh.” She said, her voice hollow, the hope that had been laced through her gaze lost completely to disappointment. It looked as if all the life had deflated out of her, all of the hope she had been clutching at desperately. “Look, I’m sorry Hermione, I really am, but it’s just a coincidence that you were here tonight. I knew you were staying here, but that's not why I came. I’m here on resistance orders, not for a social visit, as much as I wish that I were. I don’t have much time to chat, I was supposed to be back as soon as possible, once my job was done–” 

Hermione cut him off, “Be back where? What job? You haven’t told me a single bit of useful information since you arrived here. Why are you here, Harry, if, as you so astutely pointed out, are not here to see me?” She said, taking a long sip from her mug, which was no longer steaming, and, from the puckered look on Hermione’s face, was no longer hot either. Potter took another swallow of his whiskey, drumming his fingers on the table before looking back up to face his friend. If he waited another moment to speak, Draco was sure he would have said something that would have caused Potter to leave once and for all, but thankfully, he finally spoke up, finally telling Hermione something worthwhile.

“I’m here to see Aberforth. It’s official Order business, kind of… classified.” He said, his shoulders slumping as he sensed Hermione’s hard glare on him. He sighed then, a resigned sigh, knowing there was no winning this battle of secrecy, not after all he’d failed to do these past seven years, not with Hermione’s eyes on him, not with the promise of Draco’s wand up his ass if he didn’t. “I was asked by some of the higher ups to speak to him, as someone who knows him–” He paused, catching the amused quirk of Draco’s brow, “Well–someone who did know him at some point in time–to, um, offer him a position–” He broke off, scrubbing his hand across his face, scratching along the scruff lightly peppering his jaw. 

“What kind of position?” Hermione urged, becoming obviously impatient with her friend’s ability to stall in any way possible. Draco could practically feel the frustration seeping off of Hermione in droves. He tried to stoke back her fire the best that he could, but if he was being completely honest, he wanted to see how this would play out. So he pried her hand off of his forearm, sliding his hand back into hers in one motion, rubbing a pattern gently into her hand. Hermione’s eyes shifted to him for a moment, shooting him a grateful look before focusing her attention back on Potter.

Finally he sighed, his hand dropping to the table, “I was sent here by the higher ups to offer Aberforth Kingsley’s position. They want to make him the head of the resistance.” Potter’s words hung in the air around them, neither Draco nor Hermione doing so much as breathing. Potter proceeded to pour himself another glass of Draco’s whiskey, despite the glare the latter shot him, downing half the glass in the single space of a breath. “You’re joking,” Draco finally says, “You have to be.” 

Potter’s eyes snapped to his, his lip curling into a sneer, “I thought you said he was going to stay quiet.” He practically hissed. Before Hermione could jump on his defense, Draco spoke for himself, finally hitting his threshold for the Chosen One’s bullshit, “You’re absolutely incredible, Potter, truly.” He huffed a laugh, tipping back another sip of whiskey. Hermione’s hand squeezed his arm slightly in warning, which he noted, but ignored. “You disappear for seven years and come back expecting to make demands that we’ll actually listen to! Absolutely incredible.” Draco shook his head, rolling his eyes slightly at the gall of the man in front of him. 

“Let me tell you something, Potter, this little ‘mission’ you’re on, it doesn’t just affect you, or affect Aberforth, it affects  _ all  _ of us. Me, Hermione, Lovegood, Finnegan, Daphne. All of us who fucking live in this house, not just you. We have a right to know, so when you sit here, and tell me that I’m not allowed the right to voice my opinion about it, you should think about how fucking ridiculous you sound because, the next time you say something like that to me, or to Hermione, I won’t hesitate to hex your fucking dick off, I don’t care if you’re the bloody Chosen One, or Merlin himself. Am I making myself clear?” 

When Potter didn’t answer, Draco made the decision to assume that he had understood. A strange silence hung over them for a moment, Potter’s face red as he tried to hide behind his glass. Hermione was the one who broke it, her face twisted into a familiar expression, the combination of muddled and curious that meant that Hermione was lost deep within her thoughts. “They want Aberforth to take Kingsley’s position? Why?” She asked, more rhetorical, as if she were trying to work through the problem out loud rather than expect a response. “Not that he isn’t qualified, or that he couldn’t do the job if they needed him to, but a curious choice,” She turned her head to Draco, cocking her eyebrow at him, “Don’t you think?” 

Hermione bit her lip in the most distracting of ways, but somehow he managed to give her a coherent answer, “Definitely curious. Pray tell, why, Potter, is our esteemed head of house being chosen for this position? Surely there were more apt choices, ones closer to the top of the ranks, hmm?” Draco said, pondering, but at the same time taunting Harry into giving him an actual answer. The man glared at Draco, but he did indeed answer him, albeit begrudgingly. When he spoke he looked down at the table, as if he didn’t want to admit the true reason.

“The higher ups, along with some of our foreign allies have had their eyes on this particular safehouse for a while now. For some reason or another, over the years that Aberforth has been in charge, has sustained the least amount of casualties in battle, and has the highest success rate in missions among the houses. You guys, under Aberforth’s leadership, function as a cohesive unit better than any other we’ve seen. Your number of rescued POWs outnumbers other units by almost half. 

“The Order is in desperate need of someone who can bring us together. It’s no secret that we’re losing our edge in this war. We’re hanging on by the skin of our teeth. You might be many things, Malfoy, but you’re not stupid; I know you’re not. You’ve seen the maps, the casualty lists. You-Know-Who is gaining influence every day still, in our country and others. There’s no end in sight to this war, at least not one where we end up on top. We need someone like Aberforth to lead us. He, like his late brother, has the ability to get people to listen, to get their attention and force them to work together. He’s our best shot, maybe the only one we have left.” Potter raked his hands through his hair, pulling on the ends in frustration, looking as if saying this, complimenting them (him), was wounding his ego even more than it already was. 

It almost made Draco smile, he would have, if only he didn’t understand how dire the situation actually was for them to consider Aberforth as their first choice. So, instead, he cleared his throat, asking, “How do you know he’ll even agree?” Before Potter could answer, Hermione beat him to it, looking absently at the wall as she did, “Because we need him to.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Draco knew there was no way that Aberforth would ever turn down this position, even if it meant losing everything. The man was sacrificial, as much as his brother was. It no longer mattered what Aberforth wanted, but what the world needed, and the world needs him. 

Draco sighed, resting his head in his hands. “ _ Fuck. _ ” He hissed out, rubbing at his exhausted eyes. He felt Hermione’s delicate, but reassuring touch on his nape, twirling at the silky strands of platinum hair there. Her thumb rubbed at the back of his neck, at the tension there, relieving some of it, if only a miniscule bit. He could feel her silent message in each twist of his hair, each touch of her fingertips against his skin, whispering,  _ ‘It will be alright, Draco. Don’t worry.’  _

When Draco finally gained enough of his wits back, he lifted his head away from his hands, brushing his fringe lightly away from his eyes. “Then riddle me this, Potter,” He said, his voice still slightly off-kilter. “Who’s going to take charge of the safehouse then? I don’t want to get stuck with some incompetent arsehole who sees me as a threat rather than an ally, who doesn’t have a clue how to run a sodding safehouse.” He said pointedly. 

Potter sighed, taking in another drink deeply, yanking on his hair again, frustration visible in his frame. “I’m really not supposed to say, but, I suppose…” He trailed off, shaking his head before continuing. “The Order wanted to pick someone who knew Aberforth’s strategies, someone who knew the way that the house operates, both on a day-to-day basis, as well as on missions and in battle. Which means, that they wanted to choose someone who lived in the house, has lived here for a while, who was close enough to Aberforth that they knew his thought process.” Potter said, motioning with his hands as he spoke. “Just get on with it already, Scarhead. It’s already three-thirty in the morning. I do want to get to bed at some point tonight.” Draco said, causing Hermione to pinch him lightly on the inside of his forearm in playful admonishment. 

“The Order decided to choose the two of you to run the house. I wasn’t supposed to be the one to tell you this, you were supposed to get a fire call within the next few days, but no real harm done in me telling you now. They’ve been watching you for a while, Malfoy, as well as you, Hermione. People follow you, Malfoy, they listen. Your mission plans, your strategies, they have a higher success rate than many of those with twice your experience. They even fear you a bit, which, depending on the day could be a good thing–or a bad thing. You’re a more than capable fighter, able to hold your own better than most.” Potter’s face cringed as he spoke the words, though it seemed to be that he believed him. He was sure that was what was hurting the man’s pride more than saying the words, believing them.

“Unfortunately, you don’t have the best track record when it comes to your temper, or your patience level, which is one of the reasons why Hermione was chosen to run the house alongside you. People trust you, Hermione, you’re strong, capable. Your fighting skills are almost just as good as Malfoy’s, your logical mind, the way you’re able to be both compassionate and clinical when looking at a situation allows you to make difficult decisions that many are unable to. You’re patient, much more patient than Malfoy is–than I am. You’re fierce and near-fearless. I’ve seen some of your battle plans; they’re brilliant, and so are you. You always have been. You two might be younger than most who run safehouses, but that doesn’t mean you’re not qualified. You both full-well known what you’re doing. And the Order, as well as I, know that you’ll do it be–” Hermione cuts him off mid-sentence, something Potter looks like he’s becoming tired of. “Because they need us to.” 

She sounded about as exasperated about the revelation as Draco felt, the burden already weighing down on their shoulders, though it’s not yet theirs to carry. Draco didn’t want this, wasn’t fit to lead, but Potter was right: he would do it because they needed him to, he would do it with Hermione alongside him. He wasn’t going to make the world suffer due to his own selfishness. 

“It doesn’t take effect for another few days, but… I suppose it doesn’t hurt for me to give you a heads up. Better than the Order blindsiding you with it. This way, you have at least  _ some  _ time with Aberforth to go over your duties and responsibilities. I am sorry, though, that you guys have to take this on. I know it’s not what either of you wanted.” Potter shrugged, looking truly sympathetic, even towards Draco. For the first time, Draco was able to truly see the weight this war, his destiny, had on the man in front of him. His emerald eyes held heaps of lifelong sorrow, his shoulders sunken down with an unimaginable amount of burden, his fists trembling. And Draco empathized, though he would never admit it aloud, not to Potter, not to Hermione, not to himself. 

“I appreciate you telling us, Harry, I really do.” Hermione said carefully, her words deliberate. Her fingers shook as she reached out absentmindedly to rest her hand against Draco’s forearm. He could feel Hermione’s fear, her anxiety, her opposition to this decision in her touch, hear it in the slightly squeaky way she spoke. Potter swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He nodded weakly, probably hearing the wavering in Hermione’s voice as well as Draco himself did. 

Draco lifted his hand to push one of Hermione’s wayward curls behind her ear, letting his fingers skim the surface of her cheek, enough to get her to fight off a shudder. He gave her a soft smile, pressing a kiss to her temple, trying to convey all his reassurances through them, shouting them through the gentle press of his lips in the hopes that she understood. She melted a bit under his touch, but remained tense, worried. 

Potter stood from the table, draining the rest of his drink, understanding the dismissal in Hermione’s words. “I have to be back at headquarters at dawn, so I suppose I should go talk to Aberforth now.” He said, bowing his head down to Hermione. Waking up out of her trance, Hermione nodded her head, brushing nonexistent lint off of her pyjama pants before standing as well. “I guess I’ll see you around then, Harry.” She said, her voice quiet. Potter walked across the room and wrapped his arms around his former best friend tightly. Hesitantly at first, Hermione’s arms snaked around the other man’s body, her face pressed into his shoulder. Draco pushed down the spark of jealousy he felt, knowing that Hermione never felt that way about Potter. “I’ll keep in contact this time. I’ll be back here, with explanations, I promise you. I have no intention of staying hidden anymore, Hermione.” He murmured against her hair. 

Hermione nodded as she pulled away. Draco could see the glint of tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away before they completely formed. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?” She said weakly. Potter nodded in reply, stating, “Expect my owl by the end of the week.” He nodded curtly at Draco, which he returned. An understanding, or, at least, hopefully, the start of one, as long as he keeps his mouth shut. “I know I’m a little late on the lecture, but,” He paused, “You hurt her, Malfoy, and I’ll make sure the healers are never able to put you back together once I’m done with you.” Draco wanted to roll his eyes at this, but instead he just cocked a brow and nodded.

Draco watched as Hermione smiled at her best friend in farewell as he walked back towards the doorway. Potter paused there, looking at Hermione once more, his eyes a piercing green, stating one more time, “I promise,” before pushing his glasses up on his nose and walking away into the lowly lit corridor towards Aberforth’s office. 

As soon as he was gone, Hermione crumpled like a piece of paper, sliding to the ground, her knees to her chest in an upright fetal position. Her body shook with an overwhelming amount of emotion, fighting off the inevitable panic attack. Her fingers twitched with cruciatus tremors, her eyes attempting to hold back tears. Draco was there in an instant, on his knees on the tile floor, one bent to his chest, the other one straight out. He leaned his back against the cabinet, holding Hermione to him as she trembled. 

They sat that way for a long while, Draco holding her as Hermione struggled to find breath. Both of their hearts pounded in tandem as he ran his fingers through her hair in a way he knew soothed her. Hermione buried her face against his neck, taking in the scent of him, resting her lips against his pulse. He could feel the warmth of her tears, though he said nothing about them, gave nothing away to suggest that he even noticed. The silence hung around them like a curtain, so fragile, Draco was scared to break it lest he disturb her before she was ready. Finally, after he wasn’t sure he could go any longer without saying anything, Hermione spoke.

“I’m scared, Draco. I’m not ready for this.  _ We’re  _ not ready for this.” She says, her voice frantic, fearful. Draco sighed, resting his chin on the top of Hermione’s head. “No, we’re not. And you know what? I’m fucking terrified, Hermione, absolutely terrified. I’ve lived in this house for more than five years and more than half of these wankers still think I’m a Death Eater spy, and now I’m expected to lead them? Are they going to follow me because they what? Fear me? Think that I’ll murder them once their back is turned? Yeah,” He chuckled, “Because  _ that’s  _ going to go over  _ so  _ well.” The words kept falling out of Draco’s mouth like alphabetical vomit, but he managed to stop before he completely lost himself, especially when he knew that tonight, Hermione needed him. “Are you okay, Granger?” He said her surname with affection, as, it has long since become the closest thing he has to a pet name. “With him? With everything?” 

After hesitating for a moment, he felt her shrug against him, “Not really, but I will be. I have to be. It’s not something I get to choose these days.” The words resonated with him in a way that ached. Pausing for a moment, she drew away, leaving him cold, empty without her touch. “Seven years, Draco. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen him. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss him everyday. He’s my best friend, even after everything, he’s still  _ Harry. _ ” Hermione heaved in a breath, looking as if the weight of the world were balanced atop her shoulders. She lifted a hand, brushing it gently against his face, “I’m sorry, about what he said to you, what he said about you. He doesn’t know you, Draco, he never did, certainly not the way you are now. He can be  _ really  _ thick-headed. I swear he just doesn’t think before he speaks sometimes–well–most of the time. He’ll come ‘round, and, even if he doesn’t, I don’t care.” 

Draco only shook his head, “I’m used to it by now, Hermione. I expected nothing different from Potter, even if he is the ‘Chosen One’.” He rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t even matter. If people don’t believe my intentions by now, they never will. I’ve given up trying to convince everyone. It’s not like I actually care what they think anyway.” He was sick and tired of the assumptions, despite all he’d done for the war effort, despite all he’d given up. He rested his head against the cabinet, looking up at the dank ceiling, jaw clenched in ire.

“Draco?” She asked, her fingertips idly rubbing against the mark on his left forearm in an affectionate gesture that filled him with warmth despite his sour mood. “Hmm?” He replied, wrapping one of her curls around his finger twirling it, twirling it, twirling it. “I love you,” She said, her lips so close to his ear that he could feel the heat of her breath. “So. Damn. Much.” She punctuated her last three words with kisses along his jawline, gentle, but powerful enough to send jolts straight to his heart–and his groin. He would never get used to those words coming out of her mouth, or the way she sighed his name, as if it were her saving grace, as if  _ he  _ were. She pressed one last chaste kiss against his lips. “I love you too.” He said, muffled against her mouth, but he was sure she got the hint, judging by the slight smile that graced her face.

Unfortunately, that smile didn’t last long, as only moments later, she seemed to remember the night’s events. “Shit, Draco,” She said, sounding deflated, her hand dropping to rest against his chest. “How are we going to do this?” She asked desperately, seemingly pleading with the universe to give her an answer. “I don’t know, love. I wish I did.” He paused, “But I know we’ll figure it out. You’re brilliant and I’m devilishly handsome. Together, we’ll figure something out. We always manage to make it work.” 

“Look at you being all optimistic.” She said, squinting as she studied him with those eyes of hers. Draco only shrugged, “You were bound to rub off on me eventually, Golden Girl.” Hermione gave him another one of her world-melting smiles, kissing his cheek so lightly that he barely felt it, but his eyelids fluttered just the same. “Can we just think about all of this in the morning? I think–I think that if I have to think about anything else tonight, my brain just might explode.” Hermione said, rubbing her temples. “If your brain is going to explode than mine and everyone else’s has long since detonated.” His heart jump-started as she giggled, even if it was only the slightest bit. “I’m serious, Draco.” She said, scraping the fingernail of her thumb against the faint hint of stubble on his jaw. 

“Yes, yes, Granger, I understand. You want us to enjoy our last few nights sans responsibility before we’re forced to take over this shithole.” Hermione nodded, “Exactly.” Draco agreed with a dip of his chin, “Alright.” She had dealt with enough tonight, if she wanted to forget about it until tomorrow, he wouldn’t begrudge her the opportunity. “If that’s what you want.” 

Draco watched as Hermione stood up on shaky legs, still weak from revelations tonight presented to her. Hair fluttered around her face like a golden halo, curly and frantic, but unequivocally hers. Draco watched from his place on the floor as she glanced around the room, before waving her wand, silently summoning all of the dirty dishes, empty bottles, to the sink, save Draco’s tumbler which still sat half-empty on the table.

He shot Hermione a grateful look as he eased himself up from the floor, making his way back to his seat at the table. He didn’t sit down, instead standing there behind the chair, his fingers curling around the familiar crystal, letting a breath loose in his chest. He could feel Hermione lingering behind him, her presence a balm to his anxieties. He swallowed back all his doubts, his concerns, if only until the morning, delaying the inevitable shitstorm of emotion from demolishing him. 

Instead, he rolled his neck, feeling the muscles ache as he lifted his glass into the air in a toast. He licked his lips, speaking, his voice gravely with effort, “Percy Weasley,” He paused, sucking in a breath, “And Kingsley Shacklebolt,” He glanced behind him as he hesitated, giving each of the men a moment of silence, of respect before continuing. As he began to speak again, he felt the soft press of Hermione’s body against his back, her hands snaking around his body gently. “May they find the peace we’re all seeking.” He finished in a whisper, guiding the glass to his lips, closing his eyes as the amber liquid touched his tongue, as it burned its way down his throat. 

Standing in silence a moment, Hermione’s arms wrapped around him like a guard against the world, Draco felt as if he could fall apart. That, if Hermione let go, he might disappear into a puddle on the ground. So instead, he turned in the circle of her arms, wrapping his arms around her in turn, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. He knew that if he needed her to, Hermione would stay there, would hold him up for the rest of his life, and if, he didn’t move now, he might need her to. “Let’s go to bed, love,” He said, trying to make it sound as if he were stronger than he actually was. “Maybe do something irresponsible?” He added with a touch of a smirk on his lips.

He felt Hermione chuckle against his chest as she waited carefully for him to pull away before moving. “Irresponsible sounds good.” She stated as Draco released his hold on her. Her arms slid back from his body, her one hand reaching up to brush some hair away from Draco’s eye. Beginning to walk towards the door, Draco called behind him, “Hermione Granger and irresponsible in the same sentence. Never thought I’d see the day.” He could practically see Hermione rolling her eyes at his words. “Let’s get to bed before the sun comes up.” She said, walking past Draco and out the door into the hall. Draco stood there another moment, watching her as she walked, holding himself up against the door frame. He was sure that if he didn’t get out of this room now, he might never regain the strength to. So, pulling all the broken and breaking pieces of himself together, Draco followed after Hermione, in the hope of losing himself in her touch, in her scent, in  _ her _ , if only for a few hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't make any promises on when the next chapter will be up, but I do hope it will be soon. Thanks so much for sticking with my inconsistent updating schedule!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at dilemma-ed (followbacks at dil-emma-ed) for updates and previews on my writing, as well as general posts about books, dramione and Harry Potter. 
> 
> I love hearing feedback from my readers, so don't hesitate to comment, kudos, or reach out to me on here or on tumblr:)
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> Em:)

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!!
> 
> I love hearing feedback from my readers so don't hesitate to comment or leave kudos!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at dilemma-ed (followbacks on dil-emma-ed) for updates on this story as well as my other fic Broken and other upcoming works, previews, fic recs and general posts about Harry Potter:)
> 
> -Em


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